Mon Espoir
by ChiharuSato22
Summary: Grimmjow remembers things he shouldn't remember—things about his human life. But, most of all, things about Ulquiorra. And, that's what frightens him. Fate has funny ways of bringing two people together—again. Fate isn't exactly fair, either. GrimmUlqui
1. Prologue

You see, there's a reason behind it all—why I hate, why I hate Aizen-_sama_, and, most of all, why I _hate_ Ulquiorra…what he's become. I can't blame him, though? Now, can I? Things have changed—times have changed. We are no longer human.

When we were human…things were different. It is foolish to long for the past, I know, he knows, we _all_ know. That doesn't mean it's stopped me, though. I know well that I would do anything to bring back that time.

I think…I just let it slip—I just, at this point, need someone to vent to…I need someone to _know_. I guess you and Nnoitra will have to do.

_- Grimmjow Jeagerjaques -_

_

* * *

_**Author's Note(s):**

My first...serial story on FF. I decided that it might as well be on my current fandom. I warn you, this isn't going to get very exciting (if it will at all, that is) until much later. Also, the entire story has already been planned out in my head. Of course, depending on how it goes, things and ideas might change. It's going to be long - that is for sure. Of course, that just means that there will be many _chapters_. The chapters themselves are relatively...short. Oh well, have fun reading.

- Alysia Rosette


	2. Chapter I: The Telling

**Chapter 1: The Telling**

Sometimes, I wonder if he remembers. Well, I know it's selfish but I'm like that. The only reason that I want him to remember is because I'm starting to remember. I wish I knew what the meaning of these trivial thoughts and memories. After all, what good are they if he doesn't remember? After all, he's probably the main reason I'm remembering—he is very much a part of them.

I don't even know why I'm telling Nnoitra shit like this. I mean, it's not like I trust him or anything...the words are just coming out, though. I know it doesn't have to be him, though. I just need _someone_ to listen to me, that's all.

And, before I can even stop myself, these words have already poured out of my mouth, "You see, it kind of all started like this..."

---

I won't lie. I don't have the right to brag about being childhood friends with him or anything. Honestly, we only met when we entered junior high. But, by the time we'd graduated highschool, it felt like we'd known each other forever. I might as well start here if I'm going to start anywhere. After all, this is the first point in my memories that is clear enough to pinpoint and place in chronological order from here on in.

I remember it as though it were yesterday. I mean, it even feels like it was just yesterday. My point is, I remember it well. I'm not that good of a story-teller, though—I've never told anyone anything so if this shit gets all mixed up, it's not my fault. Cut me some slack, will you?

Okay, it all started in our second year of junior high—eighth grade. Now, I don't know if your grade system's different or whatever but that's how it was for us. That, or maybe I'm remembering wrong. But, I'm pretty sure it was eighth grade. Anyway, the second semester had just started a week ago. It was finally warm enough to go outside for our phys. ed. classes. I've got to admit, I love being outside—the rush of the wind; the feel of the grass on your bare feet—that's probably why I love to kill, too. Shit, I'm getitng side-tracked. Alright, where was I again...? Oh yeah, the part about us being outside.

So, as I was saying, we were outside and the weather was mighty fine. We were playing football or soccer—whatever you prefer. That's when I noticed him. He wasn't real nice looking or anything. He didn't look shit like a girl, I'll tell you that. He was just some scrawny kid with messy hair sitting with his back up against the wall. You probably wouldn't have noticed hiim, either. That was just how small he was. The only reason I noticed him, though, was because he looked so damned depressing that I could feel it. You know, when someone's all down and stuff, you can feel it, right? I don't know, maybe I'm just strange. But, I'm glad to be strange, then, if it led to our meeting. So, let's continue. He looked like some emo brat sitting way far in the back and I decided to get him. Let me get this straight, I'm not that much of an ass that if I see some sad-looking kid that I won't invite them to join us, okay? Besides, I was in eighth grade, at the time.

I had just walked over to him then he started to speak. It wasn't loud or anything so I could hardly hear it but the words were what really got to me. "I do not wish to participate in your childish games, trash." You've got to have figured it out by now. I mean, come on, who else's favourite word just so happens to be "trash"? I would like to meet that person. Anyway, I was pissed off, to say the least.

"What makes you think I was going to ask you?" I nearly shouted at him. I don't even know why I did that. I should have just left his sorry ass there, shouldn't I have? But, I didn't. And, now, I'm kind of glad I didn't. Even after being yelled at, though, the guy didn't even look up at me—not even for a second. He didn't answer, either. "Come on, punk." I should have known that I was really pushing it. Hey, I didn't know him then like I know him now, though, okay? Ah, but that's for later. So, he did look up at me and I could see what I couldn't see from the far away distance. I swear, he had the largest, greenest eyes in the world. It made him look like a fucking kitten or something along the lines of that. You get the point, though, right? He looked, well, sort of...kind of...cute. There, I said it. He looked cute. But, that wasn't what got me. I mean, you see someone wth those eyes and you instantly have to check again to make sure you aren't hallucinating but what really shocked me was the fact that they were so...out of place. He had black hair and green eyes. If that wasn't strange already, he had skin so pale that it looked whiter than a sheet after laundry day. Okay, so the kid was scrawny _and_ pale.

"Schiffer," he said. It was too quick for my brain to understand.

I quickly blurted out a loud, "What?"

He looked up at me with those same eyes and almost asked if I was crazy. "Schiffer, Ulquiorra Schiffer—that's my name." I didn't answer. I couldn't think as to why he would even tell me this. Of course, he had to finish, "I'd rather be called by my name than be called 'punk'."

I made a loud noise that sounded very much alike to a boy who had just been grounded. By then, all thoughts of him being even remotely "cute" vanished from my mind. I was annoyed at him, to say the least.

"Well?" I pressed for a further answer. I got none. Instead, he had stood up and shoved me out of the way. If only I had known, I still think that. Anyway, I wasn't happy at being shoved out the way. No one would be "happily" shoved out the way, now would they? "Bastard," I muttered under my breath and rejoined my friends in our game. This isn't some shitty romance novel. I had no other thoughts of him. I'd completely forgotten about the stupid guy. I had no idea what was going to happen, though. Besides, it wasn't like it was my fault the guy wanted to sulk around and be gloomy. So, that's how we met. I'm pretty sure it went like that. No one can tell me otherwise, anyway.

* * *

I hadn't started out the day too well and the day sure as fuck didn't want to end well, either. It wasn't some ominous feeling I had. I'm not that kind of person. No, I had entered the classroom and saw _that_ guy standing at the front of the class. No, he was _not_ a teacher. I would have been fucked if he was teacher. It was only then that I remembered him.

I, being as blunt a I am, pointed at him and practically screamed, "You!" Now, it's hard to yell "you" at the front of the class and not attract any attention. Sure enough, everyone was looking at me like I was some crazy person. Well, it wasn't their first day knowing me but whatever.

I swear the prick was smirking at me. Then again, it was my fault. I had just embarrassed myself in front of everyone. "Do I know you?" he asked smugly. He didn't even bother to hide his content in my embarrassment. It's hard not to get pissed off at that. I didn't want to make more of a scene so I just growled at him and shuffled back to my seat and slumped into it.

My friend, Leroy, was laughing at me. I didn't forget everyone's names, surprisingly. He was a normal guy—scruffy bvrown hair, a good laugh—he was a decent guy. He wasn't a jerk, anyway. "What happened to you, Grimm?" Somewhere along the lines of our friendship, he had adapted that name for me—"Grimm". I can't say that I cared too much for it and I don't care too much for it now, either, but I wasn't in the mood to deal with that.

"Put a sock in it, Roy." I mumbled. Yeah, we all had nicknames for each other. So what? Hey, we were, what, thirteen or fourteen then? And, while I'm confessing shit, I'll tell you that I didn't curse like I do now. I don't even know when I picked up that habit but I don't really care about it anymore.

He only laughed more. The little...well, anyway, the only reason I thought those things was because I was pissed off. Any other time, I wouldn't have minded his good-natured laughing. He wasn't one to poke fun but, as I think of it now, it was pretty funny. I was silently fuming, then.

The bell rang. Now, if you're like me, you're not a morning person. The bell in our school isn't a quiet one, either. It pretty much shocked me awake. The chatter that had previously been quickly died down. Why was that? Well, I could hear footsteps echoing through out hallways, nearing the door. It was the loud tapping of dress shoes as they got closer and closer.

The door swung open and it was, I hadn't even the slightest doubt, our teacher, Mr. Sumner. He wasn't a mean man, so to speak...he was just stern as shit. Yeah, if the nickname "Mr. Stern" was much of a hint, anyway...

"Students!" he announced loudly. I swear, the only thing louder than his voice was that damned bell. He continued, "We have a new student!" I looked up. Oh dear merciful heaven...it couldn't be _him_, could it? Then again...that would explain his standing at the front—besides having no seat, of course. "I would like you all to meet Mr. Ulquiorra Schiffer." He spoke quieter (as quiet as he gets, anyway) as he gestured to Ulquiorra.

Ulquoirra bowed low. "Hello, my name is Ulquiorra." What was with the sudden change of heart? Stupid bastard was faking manners, wasn't he? What bugged me more was that girls were immediately fawning over him. Honestly, the guy's fucked up. I mean, green eyes and black hair? If that wasn't any indication, how could they _not_ see through that _obviously_ fake smile of his? Yeah, I hated him. Well, I hated him for a while, anyway.

The teacher coughed loudly—it was more to silence the squealing bunch of girls than to clear his throat. "As I was saying," he went on, "Mr. Schiffer is a student who recently trasnferred here from Germany." I looked at him strangely because, honestly, if you've ever seen a German kid, not many have fucking black hair and green eyes. Honestly, it was...interesting, I suppose. Maybe, he wasn't born there? Yeah, that could be. Well, I would have sorely clung to that belief had he not the German surname "Schiffer". I'm not the brightest person, I have to say, but that sure as fucking daylight isn't a British surname. Oh yeah, I forgot to mention, I was boarding at a fucking stuck-up, prissy private school in the middle of some place in England (whose name just so happens to escape me). Not too fond of the place, to be honest, but, hey, my parents wanted to be there so we were there. No, I wasn't British...I think I was French. Well, fuck if I remember. All I remember is that Ulquiorra was German—the _prick_ was German.

I had sort of zoned out at that point. I mean, I don't particularly enjoy listening to the teacher rant on and on about some new guy first thing in the morning so you can't blame me for not listening. Well, I wasn't listening until the teacher said, "You can sit next to Grimmjow." At that, I snapped awake—_wide_ awake.

If I had learned swearing then, I'm sure I would have yelled something along the lines of "What the fuck", but I didn't so, consequentially, I didn't.

He gave me a smile. Now, I've seen smiles before, _real_ smiles, and that was, probably, the fakest shit in the world. "Hello, _Grimmjow_," I shuddered at his emphasis on my name—it practically screamed "You're trash", "It's very nice to meet you." Nice, my ass—like fuck he thought it was "nice to meet me".

"Yeah, yeah, same to you..." I muttered, ignoring him. No, it was _not_ "nice" to meet him, not in the least. Of course, if I knew what was going to happen, I wouldn't have thought that. But, the story must go on...damn, that sounded a whole lot like something Szayel would say. Shit, I must be losing it. Anyway, I wasn't happy (if that wasn't obvious). I wanted the little shit away—_far_ away. I shot him a glare that probably would have made other people piss their pants. Well...if he wasn't who he was, he probably would have. He seemed completely unfazed, though.

He set his hand on my desk. I looked at it. I swear, I probably thought he was crazy. Of course, then, I remembered common courtesy and grabbed his hand to shake it. I nearly jumped out of my skin when I did, though, and, instantly, jerked my hand away. It wasn't like he had a buzzer on his hand or anything cheesy like that. No, his hands was cold—as cold as ice, even. One would have thought that he was sitting in a freezer before he entered the classroom. I would hazard a guess, had I not seen him earlier, that he _had_ been. He was as deathly pale as before, I also noticed.

"Something wrong, Mr. Jeagerjaques?' It was the teacher's voice. Shit.

"Nothing's wrong, Mr. Sumner." I sputtered out.

He looked at me with a raised brow. You know, the "raised brow" look that teachers give you when they're skeptical of what shit you're _actually_ doing? You know, the one they give you when you're misbehaving? Yeah, he gave me _that_ look. "Oh, really? Then, would you mind reading to us the next line in your book?"

I looked at my book. Fuck, it wasn't even open. "Well, I...uh..." I was stuttering like some nervous little girl. Fuck, I was losing it.

Ulquiorra took one look at me and then offered, "I would read it for him." He didn't even give the teacher time to say "Yes" (the look on his face said just that to me) before Ulquiorra began to read, "What's in a name? That—"

I cut him off. I knew this line. I knew this line better than any other line in the entirety of lines. It was from Romeo and Juliet and, fuck it, this was one of my favourite quotes. "Which we call a rose by any other word would smell as sweet." Yeah, fuck me. I liked that line a whole damned lot. It wasn't even funny.

"Well, thank you, Mr. Schiffer and Mr. Jeagerjaques. Now, Mr. Schiffer, I do not wish you to speak out of turn."

"My greatest apologies, Mr. Sumner." The only thought that had come to mind was "kiss-ass". He was the kiss-ass that saved my ass, though.

The teacher sighed. "It's quite alright, Mr. Schiffer. I do not wish to hear of it ever again, though. Now, would you kindly read from your workbook?"

Ulquiorra nodded, glancing back at me. I shot him a withering look. He started anyway, "_The Tragedy of Romeo and Juliet_, Act I, Scene 5; 'Did my heart love till now? Forswear it, sight! For I ne'er saw true beauty till this night.'" I swear, I heard giggling from a few girls in the back. That wasn't what got me, though. It was the way he said it—I could have sworn I saw something..._real_ in his eyes. I guess he was a drama person. He was a pretty good actor, I would say. He played a pretty good role for the teacher—by which I meant "teacher's pet".

Remember the girls who I said had giggled? Well, they were clapping and cheering, now. You would've thought they saw some celebrity or something but, no, it was just Schiffer.

He bowed before reclaiming his seat which was, unfortunately, next to me. "Thank you," he said quietly.

The teacher left our spot and began to tell us about Shakespearean literature. I was trying my hardest to be attentive but it was just so damned _boring_. Maybe if it was someone who didn't talk in monotone, I would have been _mildly_ interested but, no, I got stuck with the most boring teacher talking about the most boring subject. Aren't I lucky? And, it was for homeroom—first thing in the morning. Well, I've never been a lucky kid.

Remember the annoying bell? Yeah, it rang again. This time, I was thankful...sort of, anyway. Why? Well, it was because it meant that class was over. That was nice to hear. I mean, anything other than the teacher's ramblings sounded better.

Somehow, my gaze had wandered to Ulquiorra. He had just gotten up out of his seat and was, now, stacking his books atop one another to carry them easier.

"Hey, Schiffer," I said to him. I'm not even sure why I did that, but I did.

He paused for a moment before turning to look at me over his shoulder. "Is there something I can help you with, trash?"

I cringed at the nickname but ignored the hostility lingering in his voice. It wasn't the kind of hostility you felt when an eight foot tall grizzly bear is looming over you and trying to kill you, nor was it the kind of hostility that you felt when a kindergardener was threatening to decapitate you with a spoon. No, it was the kind of hostility that dripped off of every syllable—you could _feel_ it but it didn't quite feel threatening. It traced over every word, giving it..._life_, dare I say?

"For your information, I have a _name_." I said to him. It was menacing, I must admit, but he didn't even flinch. In fact, he ignored that comment. So, I was left with no choice but to continue, "Do you have a problem with me or something? Why in the world are you being so difficult?"

He shrugged, replying simply, "Maybe I just don't like you. Did you think of that? Besides, why would I waste my time remembering an irrelevant, useless name of someone that is complete and utter trash?"

_So, he doesn't even bother to hide it, huh?_ I thought to myself, seething. I wanted to punch him right then and there. Of course, I wouldn't, though. Instead, I stalked out of the room. I was pissed off. I mean, I was angry enough to go around killing kittens. Yeah, I was that angry. His degrading demeanor really got to me. I never stopped to think that he might have wanted just that, though. He's always been like that, though.

* * *

The next few periods aren't important. It was just more classes with Ulquoirra being a suck-up, in my previous opinion, and me being pissed off at him. Occasionally, Leroy would crack a joke but none of that is really worth mentioning. So, in light of that, I might as well skip to the, well, as of now, main event.

It was lunch. Now, I mentioned boarding in a private boarding school, didn't I? No matter, I did and that's all you need to know. Thing was, here, you didn't have to eat in the cafeteria. Of course, most people congregated there. I, surprisingly enough, didn't like it. It was far too crowded there—it made me feel claustrophobic. Instead, I tended to roam the hallways during lunchtime. It was a habit of mine but, hey, it was a breath of fresh air from the people that were constantly around me.

I would wander the halls at first. Sometimes, I would go to, what I called, "secret hideout". It wasn't much of a hideaway but it was a place, I thought, only I knew about. Where was it? Well, it was through a stairway that led to a hidden part of the school's roof. I loved being up there. The view was beautiful—you could see the entirety of the landscape from there but it was hidden from everyone else.

I decided to go there. I just...felt the urge to be alone—to take a breather of sorts. So, there I was, walking up the narrow stairwell to get to the school's roof. Now, if you've ever been _anywhere_ in our school, you'll know it's pretty damned creepy when you're alone.

As I ascended the last flight of stairs, I could see that the door was left slightly ajar. It was strange but I dismissed it as myself forgetting to close it properly last time. Of course, that wasn't the case. I could see, quite clearly, that someone else was already there. Somehow, amidst the chaos downstairs, Ulquiorra had wandered up here. How he had, I hadn't the slightest idea. He'd never been here before, I knew as much.

"What are you doing here?" Much to my dismay, I received no such answer. So, my mind was left to wander. I'm not a mushy, romantic person. The moment I saw him up there wasn't a "Oh wow, he looks pretty with the wind in his hair" moment. No, it was a "What the fuck is this annoying brat doing up here" moment. No lie.

He still didn't say a word, though. He just turned around and looked at me. "I am sorry to have intruded upon _your_ space." I admit that I'm a person of a nasty temper and sarcasm but the way he said "your" was just so rude (I know how rude _I_ am) that it pissed me off immediately.

"Damn right, you did." I was pretty much growling, at this point. I'm not the nicest person, I'll admit.

He was just as cocky as he still is. "Well, I'm not going anywhere." He was smirking at me. Things _have_ changed since we became hollows. He no longer does or says things like that to me—he doesn't smile or so much as smirk. He still tells me I'm trash, though—that still hasn't changed.

I frowned. Yeah, I'm not the melty kind of person. "Oh, you _are_ going to get _out_ right _now_." I wasn't really in the mood to deal with anyone—much less him. I continued on, "I don't want to deal with you so _leave_."

He shrugged, still not moving. "I don't want to. What makes you think that I will just because you say so?" Yeah, he wasn't the nicest. Then again, neither was I. I suppose it evened out one way or another—more likely another. I think I really, _really_ wanted to hurt him, right about then.

"Oh, I don't know." I said to him sarcastically. "Maybe...hm...because this is _my_ spot and I _asked you_ to _leave_? Considered that yet?"

Ulquiorra raised a brow in, what I thought to be, amusement. Yeah, he _really_ knew how to piss me off—he still does. "I see no marking that deems this yours? Besides, I doubt that students are permitted to go about the school grounds claiming the _school's_ rightful property to be their own, no?"

It was after he'd said that that I gave up. "Fine, fine," I muttered with a sigh, "Have it your way, Schiffer. You can stay. Whatever." He flashed me a "Ha, I win" smile in response which only proved to further ignite the flame of my fury. He may have been smart but he sure didn't make wise choices. If he was anyone else, I, most likely, would have gone up to him and _strangled_ him. I'm not someone you'd put that below. Somehow, though, I held back and settled for ignoring him. I had gotten quite good at that, by now, surprisingly.

Ulquiorra sauntered back over to where he had been previously and picked up his sandwich from the ground. No, he hadn't left the sandwich on the bare concrete, quite obviously, but on the paperbag he had, apparently, it had come in. I stared down at my own lunch—chicken, some vegetables, and a loaf of bread on a plate. Suddenly, I felt a lot hungrier than I actually was. The sweet aroma from the meal wafted in the air and almost made me drool. Hungrily, I devoured the food. By the time I had finished, I hadn't a clue how much time had passed, but I found myself looking up at Ulquiorra. He had finished long before me which was understandable considering that his meal had been considerably smaller than that which was my own. I could see that he was leaning against the railing and regarding the area—within the school's perimeter, that is. I had to admit, it was fairly large.

He stared at me boredly. Finally, he mentioned quietly, "Is there something here that interests you, trash? Or, are you simply staring for no reason in particular?" I had to stare at him, blinking multiple times, before my brain finally registered his speech.

"Nah," I shrugged his comment off, deciding it best for me not to waste my energy in yet another pointless argument. After all, it seemed I had gotten myself into my fair share of those as of the day. Instead, I simply replied, "I was just bored and my eyes kind of..._wandered_."

"To me?" he questioned me rather bluntly. I only nodded, though. "How peculiar." he commented offhandedly. What was even more surprising was that I didn't bother to retort. No, that's not quite right. It wasn't that I didn't _bother_ to retort, it was that, the moment I opened my mouth, I saw something more beautiful and sadder than anything I'd ever seen in my life—Ulquiorra was now turned away from me, facing the awaiting scenery, with his elbows propped up on the railing and his head resting in the palms of his hand. His ebony hair was lifted and thrown about by the soft breeze and his green eyes displayed a kind of sadness I had never seen before. It was...so...breath-takingly _beautiful_, though, without a doubt. He, then, turned to me and, smiling, asked me, "Why are you looking at me?" I couldn't say a word—my jaw was far too slack to even stammer.

So, that was how we first met. And, that was also the moment my life was thrown into turmoil.


	3. Chapter II: The Mushrooms

**Chapter 2: The Mushrooms**

There is a two-week time lapse in my memories. I only remember vague shadows of things during those two weeks that occurred after my previous memories. There were only faint, blurry things, feeling, and images—a few faces, a few worksheets, a few tests, even—but nothing more. I would like to believe that the reason for that is because it is unimportant and would like to hold onto that firm belief. Therefore, I will not bother to try to speak through those two weeks. Instead, I will go straight to what I remember _very_ clearly.

It was a good two weeks prior to the first day Ulquiorra showed up on campus grounds and drove me insane. After that, we hardly spoke save for the few times in class and rare encounters in the hallways. I felt, strangely, empty during those times. No, it wasn't because of the lack of his presence. I knew that much. No, it was because I could not focus on my studies. The lack of grades had created the emptiness. However, the reason that I could not focus was because my mind was still enraptured by what I had seen two weeks prior. Of course, it was all rather silly that I should remember such things but, I did. So, there was no going against it.

Perhaps, it would be much easier to ignore my useless ramblings such as that which is in the paragraph above. Rather, we go straight to the one thing that brought Ulquiorra back into my, then, uneventful days of wandering the campus.

It was for our art class—one of the few classes he and I shared. Of course, by "he", I mean Ulquiorra. We had been taken outside of the school grounds and into the neighbouring forest on a nature hike of sorts in search of inspiration. The unit had been watercolour, landscape paintings, if I remember correctly. Of course, we were being supervised but, I, being myself, seemingly wandered a bit off of the group and found myself behind them. I wasn't too far behind. But, I was far enough behind to miss the fact that the group had crossed over the _second_ log and, instead, crossed the _first_ log mistakenly by myself. As the rotten log cracked and gave away beneath my feet, there was only one hand to reach for me and that was Ulquiorra Schiffer's. I was too fearful of injury at the time to notice who it had been. But, by the time I had been pulled up and out of the ditch, I realized who had helped me. I didn't spit at him or make snide comments towards him. No, I silently thanked him and he, willingly, smiled back and told me it was alright. It was the second time I saw that smile and I felt something inside me being driven to help him out in some way or another in return. He was just that sort of person. Besides, he smiled then. He was only human, after all. Then again, as was I. I think that that was, really and truly, the first time I had smiled so sincerely. This addition doesn't quite end here yet, though.

The place that we had finally stopped at was a clearing that was surrounded by forest on all sides. There were small, purple flowers peaking out from around rocks, ferns, and other shrubbery. There were a select few mushrooms of various bright and vibrant colours. It was, altogether, a rather charming scene, if I had to admit to it.

I chose to seat myself farther from the group on a rock that was close to a tall tree that you could barely see the top of. My back rested on said tree. I glanced around the clearing, trying to find something inspirational to draw. After all, this counted for marks. What I saw, though, wasn't quite fitting of the "nature" theme but, nevertheless, it was what I ended up drawing.

Ulquiorra was huddled over a small patch of mushrooms—purple, yellow, gold, beige, red, orange, and all sorts of other colours—on the opposite side of the clearing. His features were glowing with a happiness that I had not previously seen. A small, taut smile tugged firmly at his lips and it reached even to his eyes. The sadness that had been there prior to our arrival had long since disappeared—flushed away in his solemn solitude. It was heart-warming and brought, even, a smile to my own face. I couldn't help it.

Silently, without a word, I pulled out my own sketchbook and began to sketch the picturesque scene played out before me into a blank page. I wish I had that picture right now. But, unfortunately, I no longer do. Either way, I remember completing the sketch and holding it away from my face to view it proudly.

It seemed that he had completed his very own sketch not long after I had as well. Well, it was that or time passed far too quickly as I continued to marvel at the sight. It didn't matter, anyway. What I _did_ notice was that, upon completing his drawing, he turned around and I could see his large green eyes—they were the first things that caught my attention among all the other features of his face—and noticed that they were glazed over in a strange haze of a..._lack_ of wariness. Strangely enough, it looked vaguely familiar. I was confused and slightly interested. However, as quickly as the vision had come, it passed. Ulquiorra, however, did not miss a beat (how very like him) and saw me watching him. He had stood up and was, now, walking towards me, giving me the most interesting look.

"Have you seen something that interests you?" he asked me, surprisingly, gently and with a genuinely inquisitive tone. I was startled and found myself nodding dumbly. He pressed on, "What might that be?" I believe it to be his innocent curiosity that got to me. Even then, he had seemed like such a twisted, wretched soul incapable of such naivety that I was shell-shocked by this.

I didn't dare say "you", though; I will not lie and say that that wasn't what I was thinking. Instead, I supplemented quickly, "I was interested in seeing what you were drawing."

He accepted my answer. Though, I could tell that he didn't believe me. Still, he complied quietly and brought his sketchbook to my attention. I took it from his open hands and quickly flipped through it, turning to the most recent sketch—the one of the mushrooms.

I found myself asking him an incoherent question. "Why did you draw mushrooms?" I hardly had enough time to grasp the words I had just spoken before more spilled free from the restraints of my mind, "Most people drew flowers, rocks, and whatnot. Why did you choose these?"

"I like them." he answered simply.

Again, more questions were brought forth from the depths of my mind without my realizing. "Why is that?" I, once again, was asking him.

He smiled but it wasn't at me. He was looking down at his sketch, glancing back at the original mushrooms, the same soft, slightly eerie smile resting placidly on his lips. "Well," he spoke so softly that I had to strain my ears to pick up the sounds, "that would be because they interest me." Before I could ask him to elaborate, he continued on to say, "They grow only in dark, humid areas. They are capable of reproducing with spores—not seeds—that are so small that they cannot be seen. They come in many different colours. And, their unusual shape is intriguing. On top of that, they are capable of growing in the strangest of places—for example, on trees. However, even the slightest disturbance could deter further growth for them."

A brief thought crossed my mind. It went something along the lines of _Is he attempting to humour me?_ I was sorely tempted to believe that before he turned back to me and snatched the sketchbook away. The serene moment had been broken rather quickly, I could see. Though, I realized, he must not have liked my viewing of the sketch and, like me, must have allowed the words to slip past the guard of his tongue.

Nonetheless, even after his explanation, I found myself countering, "Is it not also true that flowers come in many more colours and varieties than mushrooms? On top of that, they are capable of growing in the most difficult of conditions. Also, aren't there many more types of rocks—minerals—too? What about trees? Are they not as equally strong and intriguing—especially the oak tree?" To this, he merely shrugged and gave me no reply or retort.

That was where the conversation ended. It was an awkward silence that seemed, strangely, companionable. I didn't quite like it but I could agree with it, oddly enough.

* * *

Of the next chain of events that occurred—all of which I remember in tedious detail—I choose only to tell you a few of them. Of course, this is simply by my choice. Therefore, it should hold nothing against the _actual_ number of events that occurred. However, they were selected by my own standards of importance. Of course, these were the ones I deemed the most important—well, to me, anyway.

It was the first time Ulquoirra and I really talked—back in the forest. I remembered his voice clearly when he had given me his reason for liking mushrooms. As silly as it sounded, there was something strangely chilling yet warm about the way he had spoken then—no, the way he always spoke. It rang within the darkest caverns of my mind and sent ever-so-slightly uncomfortable and unfamiliar chills down my spine. What was this sensation? I had never felt it before, I knew as much.

At the moment, I was back in my dormitory room. The school day had finished and I found myself quite bored. I was, wonder of all wonders, studying at my desk. Though, I had been at it for several mind-numbing hours and was, quickly, growing even more bored due to the studying and numbers that were preoccupying my mind. Instead, I decided to head over to the lounge that was only a few rooms down the hallway. That was, at night, a disadvantage. I'm sure I needn't explain about the noise that usually wormed its way from the lounge into the hallway and into my ears. After all, it is all quite self-explanatory. Anyway, I was simply heading there to find, perhaps, Leroy and do something that...friends did, I suppose. Instead, though, I found the lounge, strangely, empty. It was then that I noticed Ulquiorra standing near the back of the lounge—well, not quite standing. No, he was squatting in the back corner of the room with an old, leather-bound book in his hands. He was reading the book, no doubt. In fact, he seemed intensely caught up in whatever the story happened to be about. Whatever it was, it must have been interesting because he hardly noticed me as I walked over to his side.

He was fairly startled when I began to speak to him and he hadn't noticed my entering the room. It was quite amusing, actually. "What are you doing?" I had asked him.

Ulquoirra looked to me like I was somebody who was on the very brink of insanity. I was not, I can insure you. Though, if I am now, I cannot be sure. Of course, my standards of insanity have long since lowered considerably, too. After all, we're all some type of insane, here in Las Noches, right?

Anyway, what he showed me appeared to be obvious indifference. Well, it was either obvious indifference or simply apathy—both of which bothered me.

"Well?" I pressed on, thoroughly curious.

"I am reading." he stated in plain English. He was speaking to me as though he was speaking towards someone who barely understood basic English. To say the least, it ticked me off.

I frowned, poking his forehead in disdain rather than hurting him further. "I can see _that_, Ulquiorra. Perhaps, you could inform me on _what_ you are reading? Or, maybe even _why_ you are reading? Hm?" I suggested. He brushed it off, of course. I had expected that, though.

Ulquiorra looked at me like I was mentally retarded. "And, if there is nothing in particular to elaborate on, _then_, what?"

"Is that so?" I questioned, displeased. "I cannot tell whether you are trying to be difficult or you simply do not care."

Ulquiorra sighed, pushing me away with one hand that rested on my chest. "It is the latter. I haven't a thing, as of thus far that interests me, anyway, Grimmjow."

"You remembered my name." I mused, speaking to no one but myself, really.

"I did." he confirmed, his bored tone of voice unwavering, "Does that surprise you?"

I looked at him then to the ground, finding myself unable to make eye contact. "Just a little bit, it does." Perhaps, it was embarrassment or was it pure nervousness?

The amused look on his face didn't go away. And, I highly doubted that it _would_ do so anytime _soon_. Nevertheless, neither of us spoke for a moment. Strangely, we found ourselves in a relatively companionable silence. Though, I wouldn't go so far as to say that we were comfortable with each other, at that point. That would have been far too much of an exaggeration for that time, specifically.

Of course, he had to be the one to break the silence. "I see." he murmured. I almost expected him to say more, but he didn't. Instead, he averted his gaze to, once again, his book and was, seemingly, re-absorbed in...whatever he was reading. I was a tad bit frustrated. Of course, there wasn't much to abandon in our conversation. Though, I would admit, that it required only basic manners to understand that what he had done was something one did not do. Then again, considering Ulquoirra, expecting him to be polite to anyone (authorative figures aside) would be fairly difficult—no, much closer to _impossible_. After all, his favourite word still hasn't changed from "trash"—_still_, mind you, _still_.

I didn't bother myself in regaining his attention. He seemed so completely and utterly enraptured by the contents of the book that I found myself feeling just a tiny bit jealous. Of course, being raised as I was, I had been taught that jealousy was useless. Of course, growing up like I did, though, meant that I cared not for my parents' teachings. After all, what virtues did they really adhere to? Perhaps, this bit requires some explaining.

For a moment, I will detour from the current events—no, from the recollection with Ulquiorra to an even older memory. Of course, this means my memories prior to meeting Ulquiorra.

I was, as a child, not raised like..._normal_ children were. No, one would not consider me normal. In fact, my childhood was the _furthest_ thing from normal. You see, my parents were...assassins, so to speak. In our day and age, such was not uncommon. Of course, these organizations...or rather, clans and families, were not known by the general public nor government officials. Our only contacts were those that were extremely wealthy and those with personal connections to us. Of course, the latter was far less likely than the former. Anyway, my parents' fancy for their occupations showed in my name and nature. After all, one can hardly consider Grimmjow a name other than some grotesque concoction created by somebody, or, in my case, some _people_, bent on killing or violence. Of course, my parents were not..._exactly_ like that. I would hardly consider them "good" people, either.

Of course, I must continue. I had my first kill at the age of ten. That would have been about...three or four years ago, assuming my previous speculations were correct. It was something that my family did—once a child would turn an age where there were two digits, they had to accomplish their first kill. I was the child prodigy of the family, one could say. In any case, my parents and grandparents expected great things of me. Of course, I didn't want to. I won't lie—I've always been the rebellious child. I've never liked listening to people. And, I won't hesitate to say that I am not the most agreeable, either. Of course, neither was Ulquiorra.

In the end, the reason I had been sent away to the school that I was in was because of my "disciplinary difficulties"—I had been sent here because I was not obedient. They were originally planning to send me to military school (I doubt that would have helped), but it had been...too full...or rather, the military had caught wind of our trade and were...just a _bit_ fearful of the Jeagerjaques name and laid down a fib that they were full and that my enrollment had been rejected. In the end, I was glad. I wouldn't have liked to miss my chance with Ulquiorra here.

But, the story must continue. I might as well get it all out while I'm still talking, right?

I haven't the slightest idea of how many hours must have passed. It seemed that I had dozed off, though. Strangely enough, it was warm. There was an oddly numb sort of tingling sensation on my right arm. Also, my back felt...fuzzy and..._warm_?

I slowly cracked one eye open and found it far too bright for my eyes, previously shrouded in a sleepy haze of darkness, to bear. I let out an internal groan that, I could have sworn, nearly exited my mouth had I not decided not to make such a forsaken noise.

By the time that I had realized that I was not in my room, my eyes were wide open. It took me the entirety of a minute to register that I had fallen asleep in our dormitory's library. It took me even longer to realize that I had fallen asleep at a desk and on top of my arm, of all places. That would explain the numb feeling—my arm had fallen asleep, too. I quickly acknowledged that I was not in a particularly cheerful mood, either. Of course, I wasn't one that _enjoyed_ waking up—not many people do. Then again, there are always the queer people like Ulquoirra (the pun is _not_ intended).

I sat up drowsily, shaking my arm about for good measure. The tingling feeling of blood rushing back into the arm nearly jolted me out of my skin. I had never particularly liked that sensation. With that thought in mind, I doubt anyone ever particularly _enjoys_ that sensation so my dislike of it should only seem natural, no?

My eyes, now fully functioning, began, at a haphazardly slow pace; drink in the sights around me—I could see the familiar tables, chairs, and bookshelves sitting in the particularly large room. I also took notice that there were actually only a few people situated at random locations scattered across the room. None, though, were associating with each other. Then, quite stupidly, I'll admit, I remembered that it was a library.

Even in the library, there was, usually, an occasional chatter or hushed whispers. But, today, there was nothing—I could not hear a single sound. It was almost as thought the silence was...a _tangible_ object. In other words, I could _feel_ the silence seeping in through the door and diffusing at random throughout the room. It was like a slow-spreading, infectious disease or an epidemic of some sort. I didn't like it. I will agree that I have the tendency to behave like a loud and boisterous (sometimes, spoiled) child. However, that is _not_ the reason for my dislike of silence—especially this kind of silence. This silence chilled me to the bone and ate at my ear drums mercilessly, devouring bits and pieces of my mind. It nipped at the skin on your hands and ate away at your sanity. Someone exposed to this silence for too long would go insane. It was irregular and...I didn't _like it_, not _at all_.

Something interrupted that silence, though. It wasn't a loud noise or a bang or sudden speech. No, it was something that had been there all along in the silence. There was a dull, humming sort of rhythm that hung inm that silence, refusing to let go. It was soothing to my hot blood and calming to my frenzied nerves. It took a lot to do that to me—I wasn't a naturally calm person. One could say I was cold-blooded. No, not in the sense that I could kill without remorse but, rather, that I blended in with what is around me.

At a painfully slow pace, my mind began to recognize what it was. I could hear the faint, dull, irregular drumming sound echoing and resounding off the glass window panes. Not only that, but it rang in the room. Was that the reason for everyone's silence? Nonetheless, the constant pitter-patter sound was quickly traced to the rain that was falling outside. It glistened faintly as it left invisibly, trailing pathways from itself to the window ledge. They were like the sky's tears.

I looked out the window and saw the rain that I had previously heard. For a moment, I was captivated by the slick patterns each droplet of rain traced on the scratched glass. But, beyond that, my eyes could just barely make out the figure of a person standing in the rain. I quickly recognized it as Ulquiorra's. More than merely slightly alarmed, I dashed out of the building to the place where I had seen him. What I saw upon arriving there both shocked and disarmed me.

By the time I had gotten outside, the rain was no longer gentle but was pouring. There was a coldness in my bones that shook with each droplet. My shirt was completely drenched and transparent as it clung mercilessly to my revealed skin.

The steps I took towards him were slow and very deliberate—it took everything I had to lift my foot and set it down again to move on. Though, with each step, he did not seem to be getting closer. However, the moment I was next to him, I could see him and he could see me.

"What are you doing?" I asked his hunched over form. I could, now, see clearly that he was standing above a small patch of damp grass that was situated near the very back of the building. Though, I had only noticed it out of my peripheral vision so I could not quite see him clearly. As I looked at him, I could see a vague look of melancholy flit past his eyes. It was brief so it gave me little time to consider it but, nonetheless, it was strange and seemed out of place. I was hardly given time to even ponder this, though. For, the moment the look had gone, his eyes were fixed on me. There was something hauntingly distant glazing over those deep green orbs with an unfamiliar sheen that left me gaping and wordless.

He looked up at me, his green eyes blank with a void that could never be filled. "I'm trying to cultivate mushrooms." he murmured. And, that was the only answer I received.

My lips moved on their own accord, deciding to break the seemingly endless rhythm of the falling rain. "You're going to catch a cold." I remarked, not giving so much as a hint of emotion which was much unlike me. But, neither of us acted on that logic—neither of us moved or so much as said a word. For a moment, there was complete and utter serenity. I think, I would have cried had I not long since forgotten how to. It was either that or I was crying and it was lost in the rain—the rain had melded with my tears and the sky was crying with me.


	4. Chapter III: The Rain

**Chapter 3: The Rain**

We had stood out in the rain for a good fifteen minutes before returning. It was a wonder that neither of us caught a cold. We were, now, sitting within the solid walls of the library. The soft pitter-patter of the rain drummed in the background. I could match the rhythm with the falling drops that I was, now, watching beyond the glass window pane. It was, really, a soothing sight. Still, though, the earth-shattering scene I had seen was burned into the back of my eyelids—every time I would close my eyes, it would replay for me. Something told me that there was something I needed to notice—something I needed to understand in those eyes. I, being myself, didn't realize until it was too late, though. I stubbornly chose to ignore it. If...if only I had _known_.

I remembered his eyes—I had never seen anything like them. It was hard to explain, really. You see, if you have ever seen green eyes...they're not really _green_. They're a sort of a warm green speckled with dashes of hazel and other such colours. His eyes weren't, though. They were pure, deep green—there was nothing to compare it to. They, and still are, like a sea—if you stare too long, it will draw you in and swallow you up and drown you in its vastness. It was unmistakably sad, though. Why was he so sad? Or, perhaps, he wasn't sad and it was all in my head...that was a possibility.

Ulquiorra shot me a glance, those eyes boring holes into me. It wasn't like he meant it, I was sure. Sometimes, you just _know_ when something is done on purpose or is an accident—it's something in everyone. Those green, green eyes beckoned for me to come to him. I could see that and was, warily, making an effort not to be captured by them. I won't lie, I didn't understand why I thought those things, then.

Then, I had considered many things. I was indebted to him for saving me from heinous injuries. Yes, he had, but I wasn't one to care for that so that was already stricken from my so-called "list of possibilities". The next few seemed more probable. He was like a mystery—something that you wanted to uncover and something that was just so tempting to submerge yourself in. That was as far, then, as my thoughts dared to travel, though. I was thirteen (or fourteen). Those were things I did.

I know I glared at him. But, I didn't get a satisfactory reaction. All he did was raise a brow in slight interest (or amusement) and turned away from me. Sometimes, I really wondered what his problem was. Did he (and he still does, without so much as a doubt) do it just to get on my nerves or did he _really_ find it _that_ interesting (amusing)? I, being who I am, _hate_ being toyed with for something as trivial as that. Then again, I'm quite a prideful person.

I know that, then, I gave up any notion of him caring beyond that. I also surrendered and became unwilling to battle this out because; I knew well that, if I wanted to even make a worthwhile _attempt_ at being his friend, it would be impossible to _not_ have to find a way to deal with his _constant_ mockery. He was just that sort of person—you _had_ to learn to deal with it.

Perhaps, I hadn't been paying attention (which was more than likely true) but, the next thing I knew, he (that is, Ulquiorra) was standing next to me, his pale, cool (you could _feel_ it radiating from him) face merely _inches_ away from mine. My breath hitched at the sudden close proximity.

"You weren't listening, were you?" he noted half-heartedly, only the slight intonation giving off any sense of his annoyance.

"I wasn't." I confirmed. It was the truth. "What did you say to me?" I inquired, trying my hardest to sound as disinterested as I was intrigued. What had he said to me that he would have _wanted_ me to listen to? Then again, why would he even bother to speak to _me_? Oh, right, there was no one else in the room.

He looked at me for a brief moment, his eyes almost searching for something. I knew by instinct that my face had scrunched up into an inquisitive expression. Ulquiorra's eyes left me and his head turned away, too. "It doesn't matter." That irked me.

An unnatural-sounding, incoherent growl left my mouth as I spoke, "Then, why did you _bother_ yourself with trying to get _me_ to pay attention to you? I was just thinking about something _important_!" I slammed my hand down on the table for good measure.

He looked ever-so-slightly startled by the suddenness of my actions but the shock quickly shrunk back into his natural reserve. Ulquiorra shrugged in a bored manner, eyes still turned away. "I haven't anything better to do, at the moment. Besides, what was so important that your mind left and flew off on a trip to La-La Land?" The joke wasn't appreciated especially since _he_ was what it had been about. "Do you have a crush on someone?" The alarmed look on my face must have done it, but, he laughed. I know that it was _at_ me but I wanted to hear more of that—that laughter—because it rang gently in my ears and was, by a long shot, one of the sweetest sounds I had ever heard. "I'm right, aren't I?" It was then that I snapped back to reality. I said nothing. I was still in an out-of-it state of mind. He had asked if I had a..._crush_ on someone and that, judging by my reaction (what sort of judge was that?), I did? How strange... "So, who is the girl?"

Wait, I had been thinking of _him_ earlier...did that mean that—no, I couldn't say it. Besides, it was irrational. At the time, I had never considered a relationship between two people of the same gender—I was close-minded. I huffed indignantly (don't lose your respect for me, please, if you ever had any and this hasn't driven you to mock me even more so than Ulquiorra did and still does) and said to him, "It's not like that, you _idiot_."

He took one look at me and spat, "Trash."

"What did you—" I had stood up but I was cut off before I could finish.

"Trash," he repeated clearly, "stupid, childish _trash_."

My eyes flared with anger. "And I had just thought that you were nice, too!" I yelled. Before I could continue, I realized what i had just said. Damn me and my mouth. I recall my eyes widening (his, too) and clamping a hand over my own mouth.

"What was...that?" Ulquiorra asked me quietly, his tone of voice was careful and tentative as though he were completely unsure. I mean, even _I_ was unsure of what in the world had just come out of my mouth so he had every right to be uncertain.

I know, quite _distinctively_, that I turned red—_very_ red. "It's nothing." I muttered, reclaiming my seat. What _had_ I just said? And, most of all, _why_? If I knew what I know now, I wouldn't have had so much as a doubt—so much as another thought. But, that was where I left it off. I didn't understand that...well, just keep listening.

"Does that mean that," he paused as though searching for the proper word, "you care what I do or say?" I could see the faint ghost of a smile resting on his lips but I regretted what I said next. I didn't mean it, honestly. Apparently, he must have thought I did, though. I had wanted to see more of that smile.

"No!" I supplemented quickly, the redness still hadn't left my face. Much to my inner dismay, the smile on his face vanished.

He sighed, disheartened, I would think. "I see," he murmured, standing up. I had to look up at him to see his face but his facial features betrayed none of his thoughts. I would have apologized and meant it, I swear to it, but I didn't. I don't even know why. Of course, I can't honestly tell you that not all of my memories are perfectly crystal clear—the older ones, especially. Obviously, this one wasn't one of the clearer ones. Though, I am sorely driven to believe that it should have been. It seemed important—a turning point, one could say. So, of course it bothered me that I had this memory in particular muddled up. I'm kind of having the immature thought that that's unfair but, what does it matter? I can't change it, now, can I?

I just stared and said nothing, feeling incredibly stupid. Before I knew it, though, he had up and left. And, to top it all off, I hadn't spoken a word to him. I wanted to tell him not to go, but I didn't. My jaw had long-since gone slack. I fucked up pretty badly.

The next while sitting (and, not to mention, brooding) in the library with no one around me is...boring, I'll admit. So, let's skip this entire point in time. There's nothing (that I remember to be) worthwhile during that time period, anyway.

It was a bit awkward, I'll admit, seeing him again in the hallways of the school. I remember silently thanking God that we didn't have rooms close or next to each other. Of course, that is also regrettable. But, nonetheless, at the time, I was thankful for that. It made things…a bit easier, I suppose—but only to a point.

The next few hours were practically non-existent, though. In other words, they were uneventful and not even worth mentioning. In light of that, I may as well move on to what I find significant. After all, it's about what was important to _me_.

I remember bumping into Ulquiorra at the end of the day in the dormitory hallways on the way to the lounge. Well, "bumping into" probably isn't the right way to put it. More correctly put, we passed each other and our shoulders brushed against the other's briefly. It was, what one could call, insignificant. Well, it would have been had I not done what I did next.

My reaction was instinctive—so instinctive that it almost seemed animalistic. I gripped his shoulders and, forcibly, turned him around to face me. There was a look of shock in his eyes and his mouth was parted slightly. Of course, Ulquiorra, being himself, quickly regained his composure.

I don't know what sort of expression I must have been making, but it must have annoyed him to some degree, at least. I could see annoyance flit past his features, a grimace marring his delicate face. I didn't say a word, but he did. His tone was commanding, even as a whisper, as he demanded me to, and I quote, "Please take your hands _off_ of my shoulders. There is hardly a need for you to be touching me. I'd rather you not, too. Besides, I see nothing that could have given you as much as a notion that this behaviour was acceptable." He must have expected an answer from me because there was a long, empty pause before he spoke again. I hadn't replied. "Let go," he pressed, "Let _go_ of me, _Grimmjow_." He got me there—using my name was a sure way to get me to do something, especially when he said it.

My grip loosened and, slowly, fell from his body. I had expected him to walk clean away from me or, at the very least, move away, but he didn't. My face must have been scrunched up in confusion or he read my mind, but Ulquiorra gave a curt answer to my questions, "I do not like to be held by force."

We both stood there, awkwardly, searching for a topic of conversation. We found none so we just stood there silently—Ulquiorra resting neating in front of me and me standing in front of him, looming over his smaller frame slightly. The silence was awry and seemed to hang in the air with a stagnant stench. It wasn't comfortable, anyway. It was then that I noticed how considerably smaller he was—not only in height but in build. It was strange, he looked so fragile—like he would break in two if you so much as touched him.

My thoughts were quickly interrupted by his melodious voice speaking again, "Grimmjow," I would have retorted—said anything, really—had my breath not caught in my throat. All that I could manage, then, was a low hiss. It didn't stop him, though. He went on to ask, "How have things been?" I didn't want to answer that.

Reflexively, my response was, "I'm doing fine. What about you?"

Ulquiorra shrugged, the focus of his gaze quickly disappearing as his boredome, supposedly, increased. "I'm doing alright." he muttered, "I haven't been involved in anything interesting as of late, though. Have you any suggestions?"

My reply was only half-hearted, "How can you _not_ find anything interesting in this forsaken school? Go join a club or a team or something—it would do you some good to build up some stamina, considering you."

It was a simple reply that deserved a simple retort—or possibly an explanation. I was given no such thing. He really must have enjoyed complicating situations or wasting my time. It was either that, or he liked to make small talk. "That wouldn't work," I was about to ask why but his open mouth told me that he was yet to finish, "because I haven't many interests aside from reading and studying."

"You nerd," I interrupted, "go join the book club, then!"

He looked at me, his eyes dark in a glare. "You didn't let me finish, _Grimmjow_. I find it rather rude to _interrupt_." the forced tone on my name was enough of an indication for me to _shut up_, "As I was saying, my hobbies lie mostly in reading and studying. _However_, I lack communication skills and _therefore_ am incapable of participating in allegedly 'enjoyable' activities surrounding a club. Of course, knowing this, we needn't bother to go into sports teams and other such things."

"Your stamina, though, it's," I pointed out, finding myself unable to finish that statement. There was nothing to complete it.

Ulquoirra's face took on a look of disdain. "Do not judge my stamina by my physique. Believe it or not, I am rather capable of sporting activities and other such things."

"Then join a sports team or the track team—I'm sure they could use more members." I suggested.

"You misunderstand." he drawled, eyes bored as they averted their gaze in search of a more interesting object. It annoyed me a bit but not enough to anger me. I continued to listen because of that. "I am not social—I do not get along with people well." There was a paused as his gaze fell on me again—it was pointedly accusing. "Of course, a social butterfly like yourself would not understand, would you?"

"What are you—"

He shrugged and, with a simple wave of his hand, dismissed me. "You see? It's not something you could comprehend."

You've got to give me points for this because I didn't snap at him. Nothing was holding me back, though—that isn't a lie. I mean, it wasn't like I _couldn't_...I just didn't _want_ to. It didn't even make sense then and it still doesn't make sense now, but I _didn't_.

I think I felt ashamed when I saw his eyes. It's always his eyes—those fucking _green eyes_. I just can't break free, once they've got a hold of me—they've _always_ got a hold of me. It's not...unpleasant, I would be as courageous as to admit, but I...I wish I didn't do that—not anymore, anyway. They make me love him—I swear that I fall in love every time I look into them—but they also make me hate him—hate every fiber and cell of his being; hate everything that he stands for; hate everything that he _is_. I guess I contradict myself.

No words came to mind to form a reply. His pin-pointed glare was _beyond_ accusing—it was downright blaming me. I couldn't help but agree. I still said nothing, though.

Ulquiorra looked at me. Again, his eyes caught mine. Again, I was at a loss for words. Again, he left saying, "You haven't a word to say, do you?" There was a curt laugh before he continued in a bare whisper, "It's your fault, after all—it's always people like you who are to blame."

I couldn't believe that I let him go—I _did_ let him go; let him leave me again.

* * *

The next time I saw him was during a storm. It was a frightening storm—the sort of storm that makes little children cower in fear and run to their parents or hide under their covers, quivering. It was also the kind of storm that reminded me of _my_ parents—they were a storm of their own, after all.

The rain was pouring and the weather was downcast. I'm not one for sunshine and all, but I can't say that I like the gloom of rain. Ulquiorra, however, seemed fine with it—it just..._fit_ him so _well_. That's no joke.

The next time that I spoke to him was not in the hallways. No, it was in his own room—his own territory. I was uncomfortable there—everything there was too neat to be a home—too neat to even be a room that someone _lived_ in on a _daily basis_. There wasn't so much as a single stray paper or shirt—it was just that tidy. There weren't any personal touches, either. It was looked the same as it had when he first moved in—all the room looked the same, really. Of course, by now, mine had been littered by a countless number of bits and pieces of who-knows-what and looked like a tornado had gone through it. That isn't something to boast of, either, though.

I have some explaining to do considering that I just told you that I was in Ulquiorra's room. He hadn't invited me to his room—that wasn't his style of going about things. No, he had waited for me to go there on my own—he knew I would. Well, it could be that or that it was all in my head. I highly doubt that, though. He knew—he knew everything. After all, knowing was what he did best.

So, there I was, sitting in Ulquiorra's room. The lack of speech was suffocating—the silence, that is. I'm a talkative person, I won't lie. Ulquoirra just looked at me—staring. There aren't any words for that kind of stare. It's just so..._empty_.

Finally, one of us spoke. Surprisingly, it wasn't me. "Why did you come here?" he asked as if he didn't know.

I looked at him, listening to the pitiful downpour outside. "You don't know?" I asked him—returning a question with a question. He gave no reply. "Fine," I sighed, giving into his demanding personality. He's selfish like that—he has to have everything his way. "I came to apologize."

"Whatever for?" he questioned. I swear that he nearly rolled his eyes at me.

"Ulquiorra," I began before realizing how _fresh_ it felt as his name rolled off my tongue freely. "I am apologizing for earlier—for upsetting you."

He denied it immediately as was his nature. "You did no such thing." No sooner had the sentence fallen from his mouth that I interrupted.

"But, I did." My voice was firm even as I told Ulquoirra something only _he_ should know. "Your eyes, they—"

It was his turn to interrupt. "What about my eyes?" he inquired softly—unlike his usual menacing whisper, this was gentle and somewhat hesitant.

"They're tell-tale," I started, searching for the proper form of expression or something or the other, "of your emotions—your feelings."

I could see the frown fading as a smile tugged at the corner of his lips. It was, perhaps, the most sarcastic and dishonest thing I had ever come to see in my lifetime. "You should not judge so easily, Grimmjow. Your judgement has, once again, proved wrong. Have you learned nothing as of thus far?"

"You were hurt!" I pressed, firmly believing in what I had seen. I'll admit that I was stubborn, but he was outright _lying_, then.

"I wasn't." he cut me off before I could go any further; "Your silly notions are nothing _but_ silly notions. Go fooling yourself, if you wish, but I would know myself better than you know me, _Grimmjow_." He said that so lavishly and magnificently that it was almost as though he was inviting a guest to a party—this was no party, though, and this was anything but a welcome. He had just closed up more to me.

I snapped at him angrily, "You're a liar."

"Everyone lies, Grimmjow." Ulquoirra's voice was as smooth as silk—no, smoother still. He gave off the air of being able to go at this all day. He knew I couldn't, though. I mean, even _I_ knew that I couldn't. He must have been the devil himself to have been able to manage that.

"Just shut up," I murmured, teeth clenched and jaw locked in place, "just shut up and stop talking like you don't need help! Stop hiding!"

He just looked at me blankly. "You're a fool."

My heavy gaze drew itself to him again. "I suppose I am." I whispered for him and only him to hear.

"Like the rain,"

"Like...the _rain_?"

Ulquiorra nodded, a pale, thin hand reaching out to push back a stray blue lock of mine. "You're just like that rain." he said to me quietly, with a graceful smile, "You bear the burdens of everyone on top of your own. It's why the rain falls—it takes on more than it can bear. You're that sort of person, aren't you?"

I stood there, mesmerized and breathless. It was a spur of the moment thought but I knew that I wanted to break down to him—cry to him and have him listen to me like he would be the only one to listen. He was...like a mother, in some ways, like a brother, like a friend, and, most of all, like a lover. Of course, then, I hadn't known.

I fell to my knees as realization dawned upon me. It hadn't been his sadness I had seen in his eyes but mine—reflected off his eyes, those green-hued mirrors that reflected everything and _saw_ everything—Ulquiorra's eyes.

No tears escaped my eyes, I just sobbed dryly into his shoulder. His hand was stroking my hair somewhat affectionately but no words were exchanged—not even words of comfort—for there was no need for it. The silence connected us.

I was like the rain—I suppose that I still am like the rain.


	5. Chapter IV: Without Reasons

**Chapter 4: Without Reasons**

At some point or another, I must have fallen asleep because, the next morning, I woke up in an unfamiliar bed—far too neat to be mine and, obviously, Ulquoirra's. I didn't bother to try to fall asleep again. Instead, I sat up and looked around.

I found Ulquiorra sleeping on the floor—sound asleep. Instantly, I felt bad. I was in his room and _he_ had been the one who had been forced to sleep on the floor. Of course, it also felt nice that he hadn't just kicked me out of _his_ bed and made me go back to my room. I decided it best not to disturb him. After all, he hadn't disturbed me so it was just a way of returning a favour, nothing more.

As quietly as I could manage, I got out of the bed. Walking around his sleeping form, I went for the door. I was stopped short of my journey, though, just as my hand was turning the knob.

"Don't leave, Grimmjow." Again, there was that voice of his—Ulquiora's voice—smoother than silk and more alluring than Satan's own. I mentally groaned. For some odd reason, I couldn't resist.

I turned and walked back to him, though my feet dragged begrudgingly. "What is it, Ulquiorra?"

His eyes opened slowly as he sat up groggily. "You did not allow me an ounce of sleep last night—I cannot sleep on hard floors, mind you—and then you decide to up and leave? I think not." he said to me. I frowned. This was the last thing I needed to wake up to. Why couldn't se just leave it off where we were last night? I mean, it wasn't that he was _nice_ per se but considerably nic_er_.

Speaking of which...last night...

* * *

_My face was buried in his chest, dry, choked sobs resounding within the small confines of the room. It was enough for me to feel this little hope—something for me to cling to. _

_He didn't bother himself with comforting words. It was like he knew that they would do nothing. Well, actually, it wasn't quite that...that was the one time we had "connected", so to speak. It was my hope—mon espoir. Heh...I guess I really was French, then. _

_His eyes were just as dead as they had always been—empty and cold—but, somehow, it felt like I had found something new...like I had found something that meant something to him—that I had become something that meant something to him. Why did it matter to me what he thought? He was only the new kid...he was only the person who had ever seen me cry—if you can call it crying. Well, he was the only one who had seen me...break down. I suppose that that holds some significance. _

_As Ulquiorra held me reverently in his arms, I felt like I had found a place where I belonged—a home. And, perhaps, even a friend..._

"_Grimmjow," he murmured into my ear, his thin, spindly fingers tangling deeper into my irregular blue hair and digging their nails into the back of my shirt. "I'm here...don't worry. I won't leave you." he told me. There was something...detached about that. It wasn't like he was speaking to me—it was like he was telling himself. He was obligating himself to be there for me—he was also...he was telling me the words he had wanted to hear. I suppose that we were the same in that respect—it was something that we both needed to hear. It was a need, not a want. _

_I didn't nod or even acknowledge his words in the slightest. Somehow, they were surreal and yet...yet, they were something they still rested in my head, leaving my ears tingling. It was like...sating a hunger that had neer been sated before—like eating a meal when you've never had one before; ever. _

"_Grimmjow," he said again. It was my name—when he said it, it was like...I was a person again. No, it was...it was more than that—like I was _me_ again. That was more important to me than anything—I couldn't count the times that I had doubted my existence and the reason for my existence. Well...it wasn't like _he_—Ulquiorra—was the reason for my existence. I found myself thinking that I wouldn't mind if that was indeed the truth, though. "It is alright." he whispered. It was when he was whispering, I realized, that his words became true—came alive. "I won't ever leave you, I promise." _

_For the first time, I nodded, pulling out of his arms. Somewhere along the lines of that, I drifted off to sleep—for once, peacefully—thinking...no, _believing_, that I was loved. _

_

* * *

_

I looked at his face, into his eyes, tracing each and every contour and found..._nothing_. There was absolutely _nothing_—not even the slightest remnant from what had occurred, the epiphany I had reached. It was all _gone_. Had I...had I just _imagined_ it—that I had _dreamt of it_? No, no...that couldn't be true. It was too real to be false. Besides, wasn't it proof enough that I had fallen asleep in his room...? I was beginning to doubt it.

I swear, Ulquiorra could read my mind—no, he _still_ could read my mind. He seemed to do it often enough, anyway, too often to be coincidence. "Grimmjow," he said, his tone was harsh and demanding of attention. I felt a shiver run down my spine. He was the only one who spoke to me that way that I felt that I could..._obey_. At the same time, though, I wanted so badly to defy him—if I could, that is. He had some sort of control over my head—my mind—that made me feel weak yet...revered. It was odd, to say the least. There were no words for it—his control; his power.

His next words cut into all my doubts and shredded them—destroyed any masks I had managed to concoct. "I won't leave you, I promise." The same words that had been stated last night—now that I was relatively sober, in a sense—made my breath hitch in the back of my throat. My mind bent and contorted itself out of the boundaries I had made and...I lost it—I lost the control I had. For once, I spoke my thoughts.

"How do you expect me to know?!" I yelled. Hopefully, it hadn't awakened the neighbouring rooms. That wasn't what I cared about at the time, though. "How do I know you actually _care_?! Words are meaningless!"

Ulquiorra's careless gaze fell onto me again. "You may choose to believe it if you will. It means nothing to me if you do or not." Why was he always like that? Just when I thought he cared...apathy took over again. I really _hated_ his stupid apathy. Now, though, I concluded that it was some sort of way to cope. I was about to retort when he cut me off, "You're right, words _are_ meaningless—it's what is behind them that counts, you foolish piece of _trash_."

Right about then, "trash" felt so endearing. Well, it felt nice…I suppose, coming from him. Somehow, though, I still snapped at him, "Why do you call me 'trash'?! You talk as if I'm below you!"

Ulquiorra shot me this look—this look of impending doom. "You know what?" he muttered pevishly, "If you want to vent, go vent to someone else. I do not wish to take such abuse from you."

A forced laugh bubbled up from the back of my throat and spilled forth. It had come out louder than I had thought it would have. "Abuse? Verbal abuse? You're one to talk, Ulquoirra!" It really wasn't the time of the day to argue, so early in the morning.

"Get out," he stated firmly, jabbing a finger at the door, not even bothering to so much as sit up or get off the floor, "Get out of my room right this _instant_."

"Or what?" I growled in reply.

His eyes narrowed into a glare. "Or, I will file a complaint to the dorm head about you trespassing. Or, worse yet, _stalking_."

"You wouldn't." I hissed, the tension in the room only building with each word that sat in the air.

"Oh, yes, I _would_."

I turned to him, eyes mimicking his glare. I didn't give him the satisfaction of a reply as I exited the room, slamming the door loudly and roughly against the poor, shaky frame. I heard a muffled groan come from within the room and the sound of stumbling feet but I didn't look back—not so much as a backwards glance. Maybe, though, I should have—I would have learned so much sooner the things that I should not ever have done.

I walked away from him—from his room—and wandered to the lounge. I saw Leroy there.

Sauntering towards him, I waved, muttering a soft, "Hey." He waved back at me, his brown mess of hair moving with his head.

"Where were you last night?" he asked, "We were going to invite you to come over to Tim's room. Apparently, he got some new porn magazines or something." I made a disgusted face and he just laughed it off. "Hey, hey, don't be like that." Leroy said with a grin, "I didn't go, alright? Just cool your jets. Where were you, anyway?"

I shrugged. "Here and there..." I drawled lamely, unable to form a decent excuse. Ideas like "I was hanging out with someone else" or "I was just visiting someone" sounded too much like I had a girlfriend, oddly enough.

Leroy gave me this look that pretty much read "Yeah, right...now 'fess up." I ignored it as best I could until he spoke. "We looked '_here and there_' but didn't find you. Come on, Grimm, you can tell me if you were hanging out with a girl—I bet you have a girlfriend." he said provokingly.

"I don't." I snapped at him like I had snapped at Ulquiorra—irritably.

He raised his hands in defence, "Hey, man, if you swing that way—"

"I don't!" I repeated, this time louder and with more vigour.

Leroy gave me this sarcastic roll of the eyes that he did. "Gosh, man, you're so melodramatic. Besides, there aren't any pretty boys around here, you know?" Leroy paused for a moment before adding, "Except that Ulquiorra kid."

I turned to him—I swear that there must have been this...anger or at least _something_ murderous in my eyes because he backed up.

"Hey, man," he shrugged, saying it like it was his mantra, "you know I'm bi. Besides, he's pretty cute, isn't he? Really nice and polite, too."

I gave him a bewildered look. Honestly, I had no idea he was bi...sexual. And...he thought Ulquiorra was cute (okay, that wasn't too far off) and _nice_? Oh, come on! He was anything _but_ nice! "You're..._what_?" I stressed the "what" as I spoke. "You didn't tell me that, Roy."

He raised a brow at me in perplexion before a light bulb seemed to appear above his head and he realized what he had said. "Oh, yeah! You're the one guy I didn't tell!"

I gave Leroy this "what the fuck" look. Except, I didn't swear then...so it was more along the lines of "what in the world". "Why not?" I asked, not bothering to beat around the bush.

Leroy waved his hand in the air dismissively. "You know, I was afraid that you'd get all weirded out. I mean, you are the good kid of the family, right?" Yeah, I was always called the "good kid" in my family when I was far from that—polar opposite, even.

My fist clenched but remained at my side. It was a ridiculous anger that I was harbouring but, hey, I'm a ridiculous person.

He looked at oddly, cocking his head to the side. I knew Leroy had known me long enough to read me well—even if he hadn't known me long, I knew I was a very...legible person when it came to expressions and, even if I wanted to disguise it, Leroy was the last person anyone could hide anything from. He had told me that he wanted to be a detective when he grew up—I thought it suited him and his nature. "Hey," he started, cutting off my thoughts, "you know...if you like Ulquiorra like that, I'm cool. I never said that I liked him like that."

My eyes nearly popped out of my head. "Leroy," I stated sharply, "I'm straight." My voice wavered biefly and I knew that was bad—why would I be unsure? "I don't like Ulquiorra...like that."

He didn't question me or tell me I was lying. That was odd of him. "Alright," he said—his tone wasn't sarcastic.

I gave up my anger and took a seat beside him, sighing at the uncomfortable silence that had built since the speech had come to a halt. I didn't bother myself with attempting to fill it up as I normally would have. I didn't feel...up to it, I suppoes that's the right word.

"So," Leroy mused gently, filling the silence for me.

"Hm?" I didn't bother to give a proper reply—I merely waited for him to continue. It was only a word of acknowledgement. That is, if you consider that a word.

Leroy continued despite the obvious absence in my attention—if anything, it only served to egg him on. "Do you think that Ulquiorra's going to survive the school year?" He could tell that I was confused. It was the way that I suddenly turned to him with my eyebrows knit together. "You know, he seems so..._fragile_—very breakable."

"He's not, though." I retorted, "He's a total jerk hiding behind a nice face, Roy."

"So, he is, after all..."

I gave him that confused look again. He didn't bother to explain, though. "You know, I'm not stupid, Grimm." The conversation died from that point on. I was lost in thought. Well, I only had one thought—how much did Leroy know? How much did he know about _me_? I would venture a guess—more than I knew about myself. If he knew, I wanted to know, too.

"Leroy," I hadn't used his full name in years and that got his attention.

He looked to me, his eyes a bit wide with shock and his voice a bit hesitant, "Yeah?"

I couldn't form the sentence I had been meaning to speak and, by the time it came out, it sounded like something along the lines of, "What does it mean when you're around a person and you feel completely agitated but...at _ease_ at the same time?"

Leroy grinned at me. I knew that grin—he was about to say something he had wanted to say. "It could mean that you're friends." he suggested, "Or, you could have a crush on them."

"I highly doubt that latter."

"Suit yourself." he said—he was as cocky as ever.

"And..." my voice trailed out unnaturally, I was searching for words again. "What if you never want to see them sad—never want to see them cry—but you want to, too, just to know what it looks like—just to know what it feels like to see them cry?"

He laughed hardily, clutching his sides. I had known him long enough to know never to question that—the reason being that he would always tell you why later. "You," he managed between his giggles, "might be in love."

It was only the last word that caught my full attention—the rest meant nothing to me. I could feel my breathing stop and, quite possibly, my heart skip a beat. I wasn't focusing on that, though. The only thing in mind was—was I in love with Ulquiorra? After all, that was who I had been thinking about when I had been speaking about him. I had only regarded him as an acquaintance—possibly, even, a friend—and the questions had been about that—friendship.

Incoherent phrases left my mouth but I didn't give an attempt to stop them, "What if there's nothing to love? What if it can't possibly be love?"

Leroy shrugged, his eyes wandering around the room as if it held some answer to my question. "Usually," he began, "love has no reasons. And, usually, when you don't think it's love, it is. So..."

"It can't be!" Not only had I startled him with that, but myself as well. I realized that I was standing, now, with my fists clenched again.

The initial shock left his face and he quickly went back to being his usual calm self. "Get some rest," he told me. It wasn't a suggestion but a command—it was the way he spoke that gave him away, it was the way that he left no room for argument.

I got up and exited the room, he knew that I had consented to his demands. It pleased him and I knew that. He did have a point, though, I really should have slept this off. It may just help—like he said.

* * *

I was lying in my bed, pondering—mostly things that he had said earlier and trying to link them to Ulquiorra. None of them matched, though. I was straight, wasn't I? The answer, without so much as a doubt, was yes. Then, why Ulquiorra? The boy looked nothing like, well, a girl. So, it hadn't even begun to make sense. If we went by what he said, then, I really must have loved him. But...what did love mean? It was not a lust—I didn't want to fuck him, more precisely, or kiss him. I hadn't even considered things like that. But...didn't friends love each other—didn't brothers love each other? Was it a love like that? Just...what was it?

Why didn't the reasons match up with the answer? What reasons _were_ there?

The answer—the correct answer—was none.

Another question, though, why did Leroy know? That one had no answer—Leroy always knew, it was just something he did.

Did I _need_ reasons, though? I mean...Ulquiorra was..._Ulquiorra_—he was too _himself_ for me to like which was, probably, why it seemed so utterly ridiculous—the very concept of it, to the core, was facetious. Yet...yet _what_? What was there to doubt—to mistrust? My intentions, my goals, my feelings—they all seemed fine. Then..._why_? Why had Leroy brought me such troublesome contemplations—such troublesome thoughts? Why did what he said bother me? Was it because he wasn't joking like he normally did? Was it because he wasn't laughing like he normally would? Was it because...was it because he _meant_ it—because he always _knew_ me? I mean, if he knew and he was...saying things like that, what did it mean?

I needed rest.

* * *

_I was running—everything was dark. There was light...somewhere, but I couldn't tell where that somewhere was. Where was I running? Why was I running? _

_Who was I? This didn't feel like me—not my feet nor my eyes nor my arms. _

"_No!" That wasn't my voice—was it? "No! No! No!" Why was I screaming—just who was I screaming at? _

_Moist droplets were falling from my face—was I crying? No, that wasn't possible. Why would I cry? I never cried— not anymore. _

_There wasn't anyone there—just me. Who was I screaming at? Why was I screaming? Why was it so...black? Where had the darkness come from? _

_The light was somewhere—I could feel but I couldn't see it. Where was it? My feet were running on their own. Where I was going, I didn't know. _

"_It's true." A voice taunted me, "You know that it's true." _

"_No! No! No!" Was that me? It couldn't be. I didn't sound like that...did I? _

"_It's true, Grimmjow." Oh, right, that was who I was—Grimmjow._

_

* * *

_

I woke up in the middle of the night, panting heavily. What had happened? Where had I been? My arms were frantically fumbling around me before I grasped reality again—I was in my room and I had fallen asleep. What had I dreamed, though? No, I knew what it had been...I just hadn't _understood_—what was true?

Was this about what Leroy had told me earlier?

It didn't piece together like it should have—I was far too panicky and, at the time, hyperventilating to fully comprehend my previous dream and just what was going on.

Where was Ulquiorra? In his room—I needed to find him.

Standing up and, still not knowing why, I exited my room. I, then, realized that I had fallen asleep in my day clothes. It didn't matter.

I didn't need a clock to tell me what the time was—nearly midnight. The darkness in the hallway was pitch black but I didn't need them to guide me. I had made my way to his room before, I knew where I was going. That was the thing about me—I knew my directions better than anyone. If I went somewhere once, I knew how to get there again.

I exhaled shakily in the darkness as I continued to walk. For the first time, I acknowledged how cold it was. It didn't bother me that much, though.

I continued to walk—forward, turn left at this corridor, turn right here, continue forward—and arrived at his room shortly.

Stumbling down the hall, I had to look carefully to decipher the exact number of his room. I had to be sure of it, though. I didn't want to enter someone else's room by mistake.

Straining my eyes, I read each individual digit separately. It was the right number, I was sure—4013. Now that I think about it, he probably had the unluckiest room number—the number "4" was considered bad luck in Eastern cultures and the number "13" was considered bad luck in Western countries. Nonetheless, that was the room he had.

I held my hand over the doorknob, it hovered there for a few minutes before I pulled it back. Instead, I raised my hand and had it set to knock on the door. I didn't do it, though. What was holding me back?

I hadn't any reasons to be there.

Did I?


	6. Chapter V: Falling

**Chapter 5: Falling**

I couldn't knock—I didn't want to wake him, really. Instead, my hand wandered back to its previous position. There, it rested for several minutes, the decision still wavering.

From within the room, I could hear soft breathing that was none other than Ulquiorra's. It was somewhat of a comfort to know that he was actually inside—that he couldn't possibly be awake and could've walked up to me at any given moment.

My breathing was shallow and came in short, rapid puffs of air. It better resembled fish gasping for air once pulled out of water than a human breathing. Still, it was how I was breathing—perhaps, hyperventilating is a better term. The light that my eyes had once had in the hallway drifted away as the moon was covered by clouds in the night sky. It was then that I realized that it had been a full moon for, the moment the light was gone, I could see how truly dark this night was.

Why was I hesitating, though? I had no reasons to be here—I should have just gone back to my room. I had no reasons to be here...right?

My hand sat on the bronze doorknob—I could feel the cold metal, slightly warped on the left side, beneath my grip. It was beginning to warm to my touch—just how long had I been holding it in my hand? Why was I still here?

I gripped it tightly and, as slowly as I could, turned it uncertainly. To my surprise, it hardly made much of a sound. Though, had Ulquiorra been awake, he would have noticed the slight creek of the hinges as the door opened just a crack.

I wondered briefly what would happen if I swung the entire door open. Most likely, Ulquiorra would wake up. I didn't want that...not just yet, anyway.

I could see, now, that the clouds had shifted yet again—they no longer guarded the moon. More importantly, though, it no longer guarded my sight. I could see Ulquiorra's sleeping form—even trace the outline of his pale body. I took note that he didn't sleep with a shirt on. That was especially odd considering the cool, spring air.

It occurred to me that I hadn't an escape plan if he were to wake. Just what would I do then? Another question wormed its way through my thoughts—would he even wake at all? Did I have a need to escape? Did I...did I even want to leave?

Ulquiorra had, apparently, dozed off gently. His eyebrows were not furrowed in a serious expression and he looked deceptively peaceful.

It struck me that Leroy had a point when he had spoken earlier—Ulquiorra did look incredibly fragile. How had I noticed this before? I had spent a significant amount of time around him—significantly more than Leroy, at least—but I hadn't seen this? Was that possible? Had I been so blind? Perhaps, though, Leroy was looking at the outside and I was look past that...or Leroy had some insight that I couldn't see. Both were quite likely possibilities, at the time. After all, I didn't know anything about him and—assuming he had a normal past, that is—he did seem..._broken_. He wasn't broken like a plate smashed against a tiled floor. No, he was broken like a puzzle missing a piece or a lamb spilling fresh blood or...a person with a broken heart.

These thoughts were wrong. Quickly, I stopped them. Somehow, though, they diverted their attention to different thoughts—it was some sort of petty revenge, I suppose. Instead of thinking of Ulquiorra's fragility, my mind went to previous thoughts—the thoughts I had before arriving where I was, looking into Ulquiorra's room in the middle of the night. Was I in love with Ulquiorra?

Impossible.

I was a boy and he was also male. How could love between males exist—a love more than friendship or brotherhood or whatnot? It was simply and utterly impossible. I didn't love Leroy like that, why would I love Ulquiorra like that? Though, again, the same fundamental principles applied to females—loving one female did not mean loving _every_ female. So...did that, then, change the scale—did that tip it more in favour of Leroy's statement?

Did that make Leroy right, then?

...No. It couldn't be. But...why was there so much denial in my heart? Was it the denial that, somewhere, made me so sure that it was real?

I continued to watch Ulquiorra from outside the door and in the hallway. What was it about him that drew me in? There wasn't anything, really—it was just him as a whole. Then, what was it that made me fall in love?

Had I just acknowledged that it was love?

...No.

I must have been out of focus for quite some time for, once my vision came into focus, I could see that Ulquiorra was no longer in his bed. Shit. I could feel his shadow looming over me but he didn't elicit so much as a word. It really made me wonder just how long he had been standing there.

My eyes rose wearily to him as he stood before me. Still, we said nothing. Well, I didn't say anything. He, however, began to speak—softly and slowly. "What brings you here," he murmured, inhaling sharply before finishing, "Grimmjow?" My name...that was all that it took.

My eyes died a little—just a little—as I looked into his.

Why?

The reality of it all crashed down on me in one fell swoop—consuming me and everything that there was to consume in a blue fire that burned hotter than anything in the world. Why—why didn't I have an answer; why couldn't I understand; why did I love him?

Somewhere in those thoughts, I must have voiced them because he looked at me peculiarly, asking, "Why _what_?"

I didn't answer, still far too mesmerized by my epiphany—my realization. At that one moment, I felt so small—smaller than anything, even more so than a snail or some other useless creature—and so insignificant. He was so large...he was the world and I was just a person—just a person struggling to get by on that world. The gravity of it all was too heavy for me and my knees gave out, forcing me to collapse into a useless heap before him.

I must have stunned him because, before I knew it, I could see his eyes wide with shock as he lurched forward to catch me, sending him, too, tumbling down with me.

"Grimmjow!" he exclaimed, clearly startled. "Are you alright?!" He seemed genuinely concerned for a moment—Ulquiorra Schiffer was genuinely concerned for _me_, Grimmjow Jeagerjaques. I looked to him, eyes searching desperately for something I didn't know of.

He saw that and he knew, immediately, what was wrong. He didn't even have to ask—that was what gave him away. He was just like that—you could only read parts of him but never get into details. Ulquiorra looked down at me with a new horror struck in his eyes. "No..." he breathed, "Please don't, Grimmjow..."

"I..." It felt like ages since I had last spoken and my voice was hoarse and new—it felt so _raw_. My voice hit a low note and cracked—for some reason, I wasn't able to speak—not properly, anyhow.

"No," he said more firmly, gripping my arm as he brought me back up to my feet, "you will not do such a thing, Grimmjow." he instructed. I felt weaker then than I ever had before. How could he tell me not to when I had, quite literally, fallen for him?

How could he?

There was a ghastly fear in his eyes that told me everything, though—why he couldn't say yes and why he wouldn't say no. Again, though, he was a person of layers—it told me only that he would never say yes but he would never say no and that there was a reason...but the reason was murky—hidden in those green eyes of his. Those eyes were _too_ green.

I didn't know how to reply to that. I couldn't say no but I couldn't say yes, either—just like him.

It struck me, then, that this was the first time I had seen _life_ in those eyes—more than the warm, deranged happiness of the time in the forest. Why was that? There it was again, another "why" question. I found it strange, though—green was the colour of life; the colour of trees and leaves; the colour of living. Why was it, then, that his eyes had no life when they were the colour of life itself? How could he not have life? This whole concept of colouration brought an entirely new concept to me—and I, then, was blue...why did I represent _destruction_ and _anger_? Did blue not represent serenity and calm...what happened with me—what happened with _Ulquiorra_?

For me, it could have easily been the way that I was raised. Somehow, though, I doubted that. However, if it was the way that I was raised that molded me into who I was...what was it in Ulquiorra's past that molded _him_ into who _he_ was?

Was he of tragic descent? I could only imagine the possibilities.

Perhaps, he was the unloved child? Or, more likely so, he was rejected by his family—was that not the same thing? Had he been kicked out of his home? No, then why would he be _here_? It was no lie that this school was expensive.

Many scenarios flitted through my mind but none really seemed to fit Ulquiorra as a whole—maybe bits and pieces, but nothing more.

What made Ulquiorra who he was?

Really, I was sorely tempted to ask...but I didn't—I couldn't, more precisely. He didn't seem the type to answer such a question. Still...I couldn't help but wonder. Why...?

Why were there so many questions? Why did so few of them have answers?

"Ulquiorra..." I can't describe the feeling I had, then, as his name came from me. I can't describe his facial expression either. It...it _broke_—almost to tears. I would almost say that he broke had it not been...had it not been a lie to say so. He, fundamentally, was still whole. ...I can't explain.

He was human, then. Was that, really, all that made a difference or had something been different then—was it our naivety that made all the difference in the world? Was it our naivety that, dare I say it, brought us together? Were we just being naïve together?

If that was—_is_—the case, then why can't I accept it? Does that mean that it was more than naivety? Did that give it hope—did that give _us_ hope?

I'm beginning to ramble again... In any case, I was there with a broken Ulquiorra and I was just as broken. No, I couldn't be as broken as he was for he had a reason—a _valid_ reason to break so wholly—so wholly that it was unfathomable that he could still keep together. I suppose that I admired him for that.

I stood up first—I didn't want to lean on him because he would break before me. No, I didn't want to be the one to lean to hard and too far—I didn't want to be the one who broke him. If I broke him...I'd be selfish to say that I'd die but I'd be lying to say that I wouldn't.

Holding on to hope is...foolish, he once said—"If you cling to hope, you only set yourself up for despair". Then, how come we still do it—knowing full well what will happen? Are we, as humans, just that foolish? Then, shinigamis and hollows and all the like, derived from humans, are just as foolish, no?

It was the first time that I held him like that—in an embrace. It was the first time I felt him trembling—trembling terribly and to the bone. It was, also, the first time that he felt so alive—it scared me, just how much I didn't want to see this but what scared me more was how much I wanted to see this. I wanted to see life in his green eyes.

Green life.

I was trembling, too—shaking and shivering—but not like him. It was a fear of not understanding and a fear of understanding just what was going on—it was too simple to be him but that in itself was too complicated to comprehend.

He was a leaf—always shaking in the wind.

Something hit me, then. Why did he know everything? No, not _why_...wasn't it a burden to know everything? Wasn't it...wasn't it painful and pitiful to know everything yet...yet not be able to act on it? Sure, it had its advantages but...it was a burden, wasn't it? How long had Ulquiorra been gifted with the gift of _knowing_—was it something he had always done? That must have, for lack of a better term, sucked...it must have hurt. Then, was I only adding to that burden with these unrequited feelings of mine? Was I only hurting him _more_?

Did I mind hurting him more than I minded him being away from me?

Who knows...not me, anyway.

He gripped my arm—my left arm—so tightly that it was beginning to turn white, then purple. It was my guess that it was beginning to bruise. Who knew he could hold such a strong grip, though? I didn't ask—I couldn't ask...not with him like _this_.

"Don't," he whispered, snapping me into attention, "not again..._mother_..." His..._mother_?

Wait, _what_?

What had—

"No!"

What was—

"Stop it!!" His grip really _was_ bruising right now. Then, I felt moist droplets on my arm...was he crying? I couldn't tell in the dark but...I could've sworn that that was _panic_ in his eyes. Was he really...was he really _crying_? No matter how broken or lost...Ulquiorra crying was something..._different_ and entirely _new_.

It made me want to hold him in my arms and never let him go...but I wanted to see those tears—not out of sadism but to...to _know_ what it was like to see him cry and to never see that again.

I knew then better than ever—I never wanted and, still, never want to see him fall.

Even as I held him there, he was breaking…I couldn't put it back together again. Was this what the king's men and the king's horses felt like—completely and utterly useless and defenseless? Was this how weakness felt?

Waking up the next morning would be hectic.

* * *

Two nights—I had spent them both in Ulquiorra's room. The first time, I had broken. The second time, he had. I vaguely wondered whether he remembered what had happened the night prior or not. It intrigued me that he could sleep so soundly when, not long ago, he had been shaking like a leaf—I understood that saying just a little more, now.

I rolled over to him, stealing a peek at his sleeping face. He looked fine.

He was curled up in my arms, asleep as though nothing had occurred. It put me at ease yet…at the same time, it made me worry—would he wake up screaming? Was this the restlessness that he had felt the night I had been here? If it was…why was that?

Most of all, was his uncertainty and the worry for the same reasons I was worrying? If that was true…just what did it mean—to me and to _us_?

Did it make it any more real?

Why did it always fall back to that? It was like that was our boundary—we would cross it just a little only to be sent flying backwards into it. I didn't like that but I had to settle for it. After all, the boundary had shifted forward just a little more—it gave me more room to breathe and to _live_. I was one who _needed_ and _craved_ fresh air and wide open space.

Ulquiorra murmured something briefly in his state of unconsciousness and shifted a little closer to me. All I could manage was a relieved sigh. It felt nice to have his body pressed up next to mine—it meant he was here and he was here to _stay_...if only for a little while.

I pulled him nearer, my arm resting unceremoniously on his waist. It was so small—he was so smile.

Once again, Leroy had been right—he was fragile.

I was so scared of breaking him—so careful—that I hardly noticed him stirring. Well, until he spoke.

"Grimmjow…?" he murmured softly with uncertainty hinting at his tone.

"It's me."

He offered me a half-smile—_his_ half-smile—and remarked gently, "You didn't leave me..."

"No," I could only offer him this much comfort—not without making this more than friendship...but, wasn't it already more—_much_ more? "I would never leave you."

He didn't say a word—he didn't tell me that I was lying; that it could never be true; he just stayed there, smiling that half-smile at me and I...I felt at peace again. Why did he always do that to me—break me down and build me down only to crush me under his foot? Why didn't I mind being crushed under his foot so long as it was his foot _alone_?

Ulquiorra, suddenly, sat bolt upright, successfully startling me and knocking me out of my previous position. I minded...just a little bit.

"We have school." he hissed to me, eyes wide with fear—a different fear than the previous night, though, thankfully. I never wanted to see that again—he was mine alone and mine alone to break if I so wished and I did not wish so. Well, he was _then_, anyway. No one knows about now...not even I do.

I realized the same thing—we were so fucked if we didn't turn up for class. It was Sumner's class—the last class on Earth you could possibly be late for. Why "could" and not "should"? Well, simply because he would _flay you alive_ if you were late, or so the stories go. No one has been late and lived to tell the tale, so they say.

"Let's go, then!" I exclaimed loudly, jumping out of the bed. The sheets flew off the bed and landed on a heap on the floor.

"Do be careful with my belongings—or, at the very least, not as care_less_ as you _usually_ are." It didn't surprise me that he was back to being his usual cold self. If anything, that relieved me even more—it meant things were back to normal...as normal as things could get for us, anyway.

I didn't apologize for Grimmjow Jeagerjaques does not apologize. Instead, I ran for the door.

My hand was almost there when Ulquiorra stopped me with his words—"Grimmjow, you're still in your pajamas."

Why me? Of all people, why _me_? How could fate be so cruel? I had come out in my pajamas and, having slept in Ulquiorra's room (yet again), I hadn't my _clothing_. This wasn't going to go well.

"You may borrow mine, Grimmjow..." he said, _almost_ hesitantly.

"Don't think I'll fit, though." I muttered beneath my breath. Truthfully, I _knew_ that no matter _how_ kind (not to mention _wonderful_) his offer was, at the time, I was aware that I simply would _not_ fit in his clothing—he was at least a size or two smaller than me, all the way around. "I'd rather not, anyway."

He grimaced at me, but it was an understanding one—it wasn't bitter with the taste of resentment. Did that make us on even grounds? "Suit your fancy, then. Personally, I'd rather wear a smaller size of clothing than walk around in my nightwear. After all, you could just say it shrunk in the wash..." He had a point there. I would probably, still, rip his clothing, though.

"No thanks, I'll do this my way." I think I almost made him smile because I could hear a suppressed chuckle come from him. It made me happy. Did I do that? Did I really make him smile—make him _laugh_, even?

I couldn't help smiling to _myself_. It made me feel gleeful.

It was only then that last night crashed onto me—in _reality_. Yesterday, everything had been surreal so it had, really, held no bearing over my outlook. But, now that I had a full night's rest (Who was I kidding? I hadn't slept a wink while I was worrying over Ulquiorra.), I cleared my mind and could think, well, as sane as I normally could.

He had broken.

That was the only thing that I knew. Somewhere, deep inside me, my killer's instinct was bubbling up and was telling me to find satisfaction in that. Yet, the other half of me, though usually meeker and less prominent, pointed out that it had broken _me_, too—to see him broken.

That all mattered not and was, really, pointless. The only thing of importance was whether or not I actually _wanted_ to see that again—to see him cry?

How many different ways could he fall?

How many different ways could _I_ fall?

I had fallen for his tricks, fallen for his traps, fallen in front of him, fallen into his grace, and, I was pretty sure, by then, I had fallen in love.

Just what did it mean to fall?

Especially, what did it mean to fall in _love_?

And...why _Ulquiorra_?

I realized that I still didn't know a single answer.


	7. Chapter VI: The Beginning

**Chapter 6: The Beginning**

We...were late for Mr. Sumner's class. _However_, that wasn't the worst part. Even after receiving, what could be seen as, a lifetime's worth of detentions (Sumner's were the worst—you were stuck with him and _only_ him for _hours_ on end), there was worse to come. Yes, there actually _was_ worse, as difficult as that is to believe.

We had arrived to find the classroom bustling with noise. At first, we had thought that Mr. Sumner was late (that wasn't very likely, though) or...we were being assigned group projects. It wasn't either, though. I had stepped in on the classroom to find that we were making groups for a _trip_. That would explain the class's excitement.

It wasn't that we were going on a _trip_ that got to me—it was that we were stopping at _France_. France—my home country; where my damned _family_ lived. I swore that I could hear Leroy snickering somewhere.

It was, what, mid-April—nearing the beginning of May? We were going to be going in two weeks (I was pretty sure that this was what the class had been discussing weeks ago. Of course, then, destinations had not been chosen yet.) Yeah, it was something like that. We were going from France to..._Germany_, too. This was, oddly, convenient. Well, that would be because Ulquiorra was _from_ Germany—no other reason, really, to say such a thing.

Ulquiorra, however, was trembling—not quite as violently as he had the night before, but he was trembling. There was fear in his eyes—the fear he had when he had called for his mother—called for his mother to _stop_. What was going on? What was going on with his _family_?

"Ulquiorra...?" I asked gently, nudging him with my elbow. He didn't answer—it seemed more as though he _couldn't_ answer, but I didn't ask him—it just didn't seem right to. I hadn't the right to ask him nor was it my place to. Besides, his eyes, despite the blatant terror in them, were distant...almost as though his mind was in a place entirely not here. Perhaps, it wasn't a place here at all—of this world.

I closed my eyes—not to Ulquiorra but to the world, hoping to find that place that he was in if not to join him, to help him. Nothing, though—ridiculous, the notion itself was. What had given me this ludicrous suggestion? Nonetheless, my eyes remained closed.

We stepped forward—into the classroom. My uniform was slightly tight-fitting (it was Ulquiorra's, to be perfectly honest) so movement was stiff. No one noticed, though. Everyone was far too excited about the trip to see such small details—I hardly noticed it, myself.

The impossibility of it all was what got to me. It was all so coincidental but in a good way, I suppose.

By the time my eyes found themselves open again, the world seemed brighter than it had before and Ulquiorra was looking at me. I wasn't aware of how long or whether he was looking _directly_ at me, but he was—his green eyes seemingly resting on my face. I didn't question his actions, but I looked back. Those eyes of his didn't see me, only reflecting who I was. It unnerved me, to say the least, but it was oddly...there was no word for this feeling.

_A sideshow oddity_... I remember briefly thinking this as I regarded him with my own blue eyes. His were in a hazy green like the sea. Mine were clear, I realized, like the sky and vivid _like the sky_.

The green sea and the blue sky—the two were connected by the rain. This was absolutely ridiculous—so many connections drawn accidentally. Of course, they were produced by the ridiculous musings of my mind so, really, they held no valid place over anything occurring then or ever—anything other than my thoughts.

He, Ulquiorra, turned away, then. His sea green eyes roamed over the mass of people clustered here in the humidity of the April rain for no particular reason. They just watched—like a hawk in the sky circling its prey. This, though, was without reason—like a dog chasing its own tail.

More musings.

"So," I drawled pointlessly. I doubt he heard me, though. It wasn't possible to over this noise. It was a wonder that Mr. Sumner hadn't scolded us quite yet. Perhaps, he was feeling kinder this particular day. It wasn't as though it mattered, anyway.

I frowned at the fact that I hadn't received an answer. It was an instinctual action, though. It wasn't as though I didn't _know_ that I wouldn't receive one. This was all completely ridiculous—everything with him was completely ridiculous and it bothered me.

His green eyes that drew me in—he could make me do anything.

I didn't doubt that. Something about him told me that that was indeed true. But, that didn't bother me so much as the fact that I had acknowledged it.

I shuddered. He had changed me—ironically, I didn't hate it. I couldn't say that I particularly _liked_ it, though.

In fact, he hadn't so much _changed_ me as brought something _out_ of me—something I had never shown or known of before. Was he really that different from all the others?

Yes, most likely.

I, subconsciously, slipped my hand into his. "Let's get going, alright?" I said with a sharp tug on his hand. He seemed to snap into consciousness again—back to Britain from where he had been.

A clean feeling of relief washed over me. I never knew such peace and serenity.

Perhaps, it would all be alright, now. Ha...what a lie that was. Nothing would ever be alright—to say that would be arrogant and patronizing, both were two things that I couldn't stand. Of course, who was I to speak?

* * *

So, it seemed that we wouldn't be in a room together. That would have been overly cliché, no? I mean...it's something you see in cheesy romance novels but it rarely, really, happens.

He was with Leroy. I couldn't think up a worse scenario. Alright, maybe I could but I wouldn't go there to even _begin_ to contemplate such things. No, just _no_.

There was one silver lining to this cloud, though—Leroy wasn't a sleezebag and they would probably become friends. I liked the thought of Leroy and Ulquiorra being friends—Ulquiorra befriending one of my closest but certainly not oldest friends. It was nice. Speaking of Nice...I took note that we weren't going to southern France. It was mostly the more Northern countries—closer to where we were. Our first stop was Brighton, which was in Great Britain. There, we would board a ferry or ship of some sort across the English Channel and head to a port at Le Havre. That sounded alright.

Ulquiorra had, since then, left my side and was, now, discussing who would keep the room key with Leroy and other such related things. They seemed to be having a pleasant time so I didn't disturb them. Besides, I had to find out who _I_ was with, right?

The answer to that didn't please me—that is, who I was with. I was sharing a room with some boy by the name of "John Taylor". I had never even _heard_ of him so much as _known_ who he _was_. The name, though, was common enough. Even _he_ was common-looking. He had short-cut light brown hair not done in any special manner. There was nothing striking about his features, either. He had hazel eyes, if I remember correctly, a pale, freckled complexion, and seemed completely _bland_. He _looked_ like someone who was bland and _acted_ like someone who was bland. Could this get any more exciting?

I recall speaking with John. It was nothing much, really—just about what we would bring, how we would split the room, et cetera. At some point, I had left him to go and see (or rather, to _bother_) Leroy and Ulquiorra.

As I walked over to them, the two turned to me and waved. I grinned back, waving too.

"So," I started, "how're things going?"

Leroy just shrugged. Ulquiorra was the one who answered, "It's alright. Leroy managed to talk us into getting a room next to you and John's." To this, my grin grew just a little bit more. Leroy could talk anyone into anything—well, almost anything. We had long since considered this a malignant "talent" of his.

"That's great." I had to suppress my enthusiasm. You see, originally, we had been arranged so that Leroy and Ulquiorra's room (in Le Havre, anyway) was at one end of the hall and mine was at the direct opposite end—rooms 203 and 243, forty rooms between us. That wasn't great...no, it wasn't at all. Therefore, many thanks go to Leroy.

Leroy grinned at me, mouthing a clear, "It's so you can get lucky." I'm not joking when I say that I almost slapped him—_almost_. Ulquiorra just looked at me, unknowing, with a look of slight amusement at my irritation. It's not much of a lie to say that he was (and still is) a pretty sick bastard—in all senses of the word—but, hey, it didn't stop me and, I would like to think, it never will.

With that said—or rather, _mouthed_—I stepped forward to the both of them, looming over them dangerously. Ulquiorra still seemed to find this funny. Stupid Ulquiorra. That got to me, somehow.

"Is something the matter, Grimmjow?" Ulquiorra asked me. Leroy only nodded his head in agreement. This was annoying—_very_ annoying. It was I-want-to-slap-him annoying, too. That didn't help. Still, it was all just jokes between friends. Leroy was snickering, too.

Why me?

I ignored them and just sat down on a desk, carefully balancing my weight between what was on the desk itself and what was not. That was when John—John Taylor—walked up to us. Well, he walked up to _me_, anyway. It was something about the change in rooms—the one Leroy had mentioned.

"Excuse me," he started, "Jeagerjaques?" I _hated_ it when people called me by my last name. It reminded me that I was related to my forsaken family.

"What?" I growled in a sort of reply. He looked considerably frightened even as he backed away.

John cleared his throat, though, gathering up some nerve before speaking. "Well," he began shakily, "there has been a change in rooms. We are now in room 205." I think that I gave him only the faintest hint of a nod, then. I do, however, remember him quickly fleeing afterwards. I guess that Ulquiorra wasn't the only sick bastard.

Leroy chuckled, shaking his head. "Must you threaten _everyone_, Grimm?" he asked me, sighing whistfully. Ulquiorra shrugged, waving his left hand dismissively after lowering his shoulders.

"So it seems," he answered Leroy, a wily half-smile resting on his lips with a placid grace that, honestly, scared me more than just a little bit.

Leroy grinned widely, his eyes looking up at me before falling back to meet Ulquiorra's gaze again. "Indeed." His tone of voice was painfully cocky with a touch of sarcasm. Of course, that was how Leroy talked—just like that. Damn, though, it always sounded so completely and utterly _patronizing_ and _contemptuous_!

"So, Ulquiorra," I set myself up for speech without much to say, really. I avoided even mentioning Leroy's name, though.

Ulquiorra looked up at me, tilting his head to the side ever-so-slightly in interest. He was still smirking. "Is something wrong, Grimmjow?" he asked me.

I shook my head, sighing again. This was, really, getting us nowhere. In the end, we just ended up sitting there doing nothing. Not to mention that the silence itself was awkward, too. This was cumbersome in and of itself. Oh joy...I hated awkward silences and I still do.

In a few minutes, the buzz of our school trip died down and everyone had resumed their seats. A miracle had happened, though—Mr. Sumner hadn't noticed that we had come in late.

Ulquiorra, Leroy, and I had already taken our seats, too.

As Mr. Sumner resumed his teaching, informing us on trip details first, though, I stole a backwards glance at Ulquiorra. Leroy saw me do that. Ulquiorra, however, did not see that.

"So," Leroy started, clearing his throat to get my attention, "did anything happen between you and Ulquiorra?" I looked back at him and shook my head. Truthfully, nothing really had happened. But, somehow, I felt like I was lying. Oh well, it wasn't like Leroy couldn't always tell even if I couldn't.

I could hear Mr. Sumner droning in the background. "For our trip, we will first go to Brighton. From there, we will take a train to a port and cross the English Channel, arriving at a port in Le Havre, France. Then, we will be going to Rouen, then to Pairs, then to Reims. Between Paris and Reims, we will stop at Luxembourg. Afterwards, we will enter Germany also by train, arriving in Frankfurt am Main. Then, we will head to Stuttgart and then to Augsburg..." After that, I stopped listening. It was making me fall asleep, that was how boring it was. Still, it was nice to know where we were going to stop. Of course, we were in the northern parts of France...I had never, actually, been to Luxembourg. I recalled stopping by Reims once or twice but never actually sight-seeing _inside_. So, this would be fun. Then, of course, we would be in Germany. I really needed to brush up on my German. Maybe, though, I could ask Ulquiorra for help. I didn't think that I needed to help him with French in return, though. He was good at that, as I could see in class.

"Your rooms at Le Havre are..." Mr. Sumner held a large, manila envelope in his hands and was beginning to tell everyone their assigned rooms. I already knew which room I was in—I was in the room next to Leroy and Ulquiorra's, room number 205.

At that point, I fell asleep in class. That was a no-no. Somehow, though, Mr. Sumner didn't catch me this time. That day was filled with anomalies.\

* * *

I woke up to the bell. That wasn't nearly as pleasant as one would think. I shuffled out of class quickly, though. It was to avoid Mr. Sumner...among other things or other _people_ (namely, Leroy...it seemed that his vulgar joke had gotten to me).

Of course, I had no such luck. Leroy was the first person that saw me exiting the room.

"What's up, Grimm?" he asked innocently—as if he didn't know. I wasn't in the mood to deal with this.

I frowned at him, eyes pointed in a glare. He didn't seem to notice—not that he was dense, though. No, he just wasn't letting this get to him. For once, I sighed in defeat. It wasn't like me but, hey, I didn't want to fight this early in the morning.

"Nothing," I muttered sullenly. I swear that I heard him chuckle at that. That conniving little..._damn_ it. I tried my best to ignore him and to stifle my anger.

He smirked even as he looked up at me. "You're so predictable, you know?" It was a rhetorical question. I didn't give him an answer. Well, not a straight-up answer, anyway. A groan of discomfort was enough for him to tell how I felt.

Leroy quickly changed the subject. He wasn't _that_ much of a jerk...okay, maybe that was a lie but, whatever. "So, are you excited to be in France again?"

Quicker than I would have liked, my answer was, "No!" He laughed—_out loud_—at me.

"I see, I see." he managed to sputter out between his fits of laughter. "You know, I can't really see why you dislike your family so much, Grimm." He was one of the few people who knew that my family was...well, an _assassin_ family. When I had first told him, though, it didn't bother him.

I glared at him. "You _know_ why, Roy."

"I don't _understand_, though." Really, the day I would win an argument with him was the day that the world ended—it was virtually _impossible_. I'm not calling myself stupid. He's just..._like_ that. It was something that I had to get used to—something that I was, at the time, _used to_.

I decided it was pointless just sitting here talking to him. He knew all the answers, anyway—all the answers that I may have _wanted_ but they were also all the answers that I didn't _need_ and didn't, more so than I did, _want_ to find out. They were inner truths about me that he would realize sooner than even I could. Leroy wasn't particularly insightful, nor was he a genius...he was just _himself_. I suppose that's why we had stayed friends for so long—he knew me better than I knew myself.

"Roy," I said in a forlorn tone, closing my eyes as I leaned back against the wall, "Do you think I'm over-thinking these things?"

He shrugged, not giving a particularly useful answer as was his norm. It bothered me, this time.

Of course, after that, it was also his norm to say something intelligent yet cryptic. I braced myself. "You know," he started off simple enough, "it's up to you what you think. I mean, if you think that it's worth the thought, then, no, of course you're not. Of course, you might just be looking too in-depth about these things, you know? If you find it important, it's worth the thought." He had said that all in one breath and with a smile, at that. I smiled back.

"Do you really think so?" I asked, looking at him with, what he must have thought to be, lingering hope in my eyes.

"Only if you do, Grimm."

"I do."

And, that was how we would carry on five-minute conversations between classes. As was the norm here, wasn't it?

* * *

The rest of the day was rather uneventful. For some reason, nothing seemed to _want_ to happen, in a sense. I like it, though. I wasn't one for peace and serenity but this was a chance to cool my hot blood and think things over _properly_ and not in the spur of a moment. I didn't want to make a mistake that I would regret.

Of course, Ulquiorra was there. He was always there—be it watching or otherwise. He just had the presence that was stifling and always..._there_. It was like a ghost, I suppose. Well, it wasn't as if he didn't have the pale skin and the looks to support that theory. However, he was completely and utterly _there_. It was even more suffocating than having a ghost or a stalker. Of course, it was a peaceful existence—a serene being—so it didn't burn. Did that even make sense?

He is _still_ a drowning presence. Though, he is no longer alive. I think I have realized that there is no difference from then and now—but he is colder now, that is without so much as a doubt.

His—Ulquiorra's—dubious aura is here right now. Why? Well, it's because he _is_ here. I'm drowning in it. Damn it.

"Are you ready?" he asked me. We are heading to Brighton first thing tomorrow morning. I nodded. He smiled back. "Good," he continued, "do you think that it's going to be exciting?"

"Yes," I answered, nodding again.

Little did I know just _how_ "exciting" it would be. The moment that we arrived in France, then to _Germany_, everything would become catastrophic and _collapse_.

It was like a deranged nightmare—a place where everything spiraled into oblivion and never came back. Or, perhaps, no one _knew_ that it came back.

But, this deranged nightmare was _mine_ and in _reality_.


	8. Chapter VII: Marks of the Past

**Chapter 7: Marks of the Past**

We were...in Brighton. That, or we were in the surround area. We were all waiting at the dock for the ferry to come to take us over the English Channel into Le Havre, France.

I reached down to grab Ulquiorra's hand to steady him. Apparently, he didn't like water. Go figure. I wondered just _how_ many phobias he could have. Oh, yes, I haven't yet told you—he was afraid of _specifically_ black widow spiders (fine, that one is justifiable, they _are_ poisonous, after all), most _venomous_ snakes (of course, he had listed far too many names for me to remember or even _count_...being a total nerd and all), rats, the word "merde" in French (okay, that's a swear word so...whatever), china dolls (okay, those _are_ creepy), cracked mirrors, broken glass, wigs, water (I already said this one), and voo-doo dolls. He wasn't particularly superstitious, though. That was the odd thing. He just found these things ridiculously _creepy_. He was a strange one, alright.

Aside from Ulquiorra being generally afraid to look into the water, everything else went pretty normally as we rode the ferry into France.

* * *

The moment that we arrived in Le Havre, we headed to our hotel. It wasn't particularly large or fancy but it was cozy and nice. It reminded me nothing of my home, thankfully. Anything that reminded me of my parents or the rest of my family was considered certifiably freakish. My _family_ was freakish. That might even have been an _understatement_. Anyway, I liked the hotel. That was my point.

At the front desk, I retrieved a set of keys for my room—one for me and another for John. I could see John walking towards me so I tossed him his key. "It's for our room—number 205." He nodded weakly and headed off towards the room. It was only on the second floor so we didn't bother with the elevator. Besides, none of us had, really, that much luggage. Well, most of us didn't. The girls had ridiculous amounts of clothing to haul into their rooms. That wasn't any of my concern, though.

I discovered something wonderful about our rooms that day—they were interconnected. In other words, there was a door between our (John and me) and Leroy and Ulquiorra's. Much to John's dismay, we had decided to leave it open.

Done unpacking and halfway through exploring the hotel, we discovered that there was a swimming pool (indoors, of course). At least half of us had run to our rooms and grabbed our swimsuits and rushed back to the pool to swim. The rest of the first day was free time so that was what we had decided to do. By "we" I mean Ulquiorra, Leroy, me and several other people in our class. (John didn't join us. He made an excuse that he was busy doing...whatever he had said he was doing. Of course, we all knew he was just scared of me. None of us, really, could blame him.)

* * *

I was sitting in the male changeroom, waiting for Ulquiorra. Despite his hydrophobia, he was okay with the pool. Let me rephrase that. He wasn't exactly afraid of _water_, per se. No, he was afraid of _open_ water—rivers, oceans, lakes, et cetera. Did I tell you that he was, more or less, afraid of cold water? For some reason, he was alright with lukewarm, warm, or hot water.

I had been sitting there for a near ten minute period of time. Even the _girls_ didn't take _that_ long to change and they were, possibly, the fussiest ever. How do I know that it didn't take them that long? I had peered outside at the pool deck and saw that they were already swimming.

It was just me waiting. Leroy had said that he would wait outside. He wanted to swim first, anyway.

"Ulquoirra!" I yelled in frustration that was only accented by my narrowed eyes. "Hurry up!"

I heard him mutter something under his breath as he hopped out of the bathroom stall (He had changed in there. For some reason, he was self-conscious about his appearance. That, or he was uncomfortable with people seeing him naked.) awkwardly. He tugged at his green and black swimming trunks just as awkwardly, as if he was trying to cover something up. I could see _exactly_ what he didn't want me to see, though—what he didn't want _anyone_ to see.

There were scars. They were _everywhere_. There were thin ones and thick ones and long ones and short ones _all over_ his legs. They looked like someone had taken a knife to his legs and slashed at them carelessly. Some looked older than others and some even looked relatively fresh—as if they had just healed a few months or even weeks ago. They didn't stop short of his knees, though. No, the scars ran up from his ankles to his knees to his thighs. He had been trying to cover the ones on his thighs. They were the only ones that he _could_ cover. I stared at the marred flesh and it stared back at me.

"Stop staring," Ulquiorra hissed, his tone wavered briefly in nervousness, "This is the reason I didn't want to swim. People always stare."

My eyes were still heavily fixed on the markings, though. "Ulquiorra," I began cautiously, "did you do this to yourself?"

He looked at me first then to the many scars on his legs. "No," he answererd slowly, "I do not support self-mutilation."

My breath hitched and I felt like puking. Honsetly, I was disgusted with the scars on his legs. I wasn't disgusted at Ulquiorra, just the scars. I was even more so disgusted at the person who had dared to inflict such injuries on him. I hesitated before I asked him, "Who did this, then?"

There wasn't any hersitation in his answer, though. "Damien," That was all that he said—just a name. I remember wondering who Damien was? Was he a friend? Was he a brother? Who was he? That was exactly what I asked.

"Who is Damien?"

Again, there was not even the slightest hesitation in his answers. "My father,"

I felt sick.

This time around, though, Ulquiorra didn't stop just there. He told me how he got these and I listened, absorbing and remembering every word he said.

"You see," he started, beginning to tell me. As he spoke, the events he mentioned played in my head almost exactly as it had happened.

* * *

_A small child was running. He looked just like Ulquiorra. That was probably because it _was_ Ulquiorra. At the moment, I couldn't see _what_ or _who_ he was running from but I could tell that he was running. Panic was rising higher and higher in his chest and up to his eyes, his green eyes that were as green as they were then as they are now. _

_At the time that this took place, Ulquiorra looked no older than the age of eight. That was what frightened me the most. It made me wonder how long this had been going on. _

_I couldn't see his father's face because, then, I had never met his father. _

_Ulquiorra was bound with thick, heavy ropes—ropes _far_ too heavy for a child so small and frail as he had been. They dug into his skin and strangled his legs. His arms, however, were not bound. No, his arms were handcuffed and chained above his head. His father was smarter than he appeared. No one checked Ulqiorra's legs for signs of abuse. And, Ulquiorra never wore anything shorter than pants that went down to his ankles—even during the hotter, summer days. Somehow, no one questioned this. _

_My initial assumption that a knife had been used to slash at his legs was wrong. A plain, long piece of cord had been used like a whip to do that. The reason that some looked older than others was because his father had began this "punishment" when he was only seven and hadn't stopped until he had left for the British boarding school we were at. If he was to go home, it would continue._

_

* * *

_

By the time he was finished, I could barely stomach the lunch I had eaten. The pure, vivid images that my mind had conjured made me feel filthy. Somehow, though, I felt that I had just been told a deep, dark secret. It was true, in a sense. It was Ulquiorra's secret. I was surprised by how little I actually knew about Ulquiorra. Really, this should have changed how I saw him. I won't lie and say that _nothing_ changed but I can't say that I saw him in a _totally_ different light. He was still the same Ulquiorra I had first met. If anything, his past was what shaped him into what he was at the present time and it was what he was at that present time that I had fallen in love with. Again, there was that word—that word that described more than just a feeling, more than just an emotion. All of that was encompassed in just one word.

It was like the realization of the whole world had instantaneously fallen upon my shoulders. The burden caused my knees to buckle and made me collapse before Ulquiorra. How many times would I fall before him?

This time, he didn't look surprised. Instead, he kneeled next to me, offering me his hand. I didn't move so he simply pulled my head into his lap. "You see," he whispered in my ear. I could feel his single strands of black hair tickling my cheeks as he did so. "It's normal for people to react like this." he told me. I felt insulted by that statement but a twinge of guilt in the back of my mind told me that what he had said was true. He hadn't wanted me to respond like this, had he? No, he couldn't have. The real question, though, was had he had even a hint of doubt and had I proved him right? Yes, I must have. He had suspected that I would be disgusted with it and that was why he had refused to show me. The guilt weighed heavier than the realization.

I didn't apologize because it would have been worthless and I knew that I wouldn't have meant it. It wouldn't have changed anything either. That was what happened when the damage was already done. It was the guilt of knowing that if I had given him an apology then that I wouldn't have meant it that crushed me the most. Worse yet, I didn't know _why_ that was.

I lay there on his lap, confused, hurting—but not as much as Ulquiorra. I felt like I had failed him completely—had I been the one who had showed him that he never should have expected acceptance—that he never should have expected _love_? That was a failure, if not to him, to myself. Why couldn't I accept his scars?

Oh, that's right—because they shouldn't have been there, shouldn't have been on _him_. They were the scars of pain and abuse—both in the past and in the present—they were scars that he shouldn't have had. Someone like him didn't deserve those scars. They made me want to irradicate them—make it so that they never existed. Of course, I could never do that. I was only human. Honestly, what was I really thinking?

I realized then that I wasn't really sure.

I would have to think this over for some time.

* * *

Ulquiorra had left the pool and so did I. Everyone had. It was near nine in the night. I was still awake in the dark. John was in the shower. He had told me that he usually slept later so I didn't have to worry about him. Truthfully, I wouldn't. I was more worried about Ulquiorra.

In the end, Ulquiorra had decided not to swim. He had made an excuse but the underlying, real reason was because if even I couldn't accept it, no one could. At least, that's what he had told himself. I didn't think that it was true and that it was just because I was pathetic but I didn't tell him—couldn't bring myself to tell him—because, somehow, I doubted that, too.

I could hear John in the shower. The sound of rushing water could, probably, be heard in the pipes all throughout the building. It was ringing loudly in our room. It was somewhat calming. I realized that he had been in there for a good ten minutes but I didn't question. He didn't look like the high maintenance type so I wondered but I didn't question. My mind was on other things—namely, Ulquiorra.

Not long after I had wondered, the tap turned off and he came out two minutes after, fully dressed, telling me that it was empty and that I could go. I turned down his invitation.

"Grimm," A voice—not John's—interrupted. It was Leroy. Oh, that's right—our rooms were connected. I had nearly forgotten. The doors—both of them—had been left unlocked.

"What is it?" I asked semi-cautiously and semi-bored. I was half-lying on the bed, watching a spider crawl across the ceiling. It had been exciting for the first half-hour but, after that, it hadn't really been interesting. This spider was slow.

I could _hear_ him shrugging. "You seemed kind of down. You know, there wasn't any noise coming from your room so I figured you were feeling a bit off." I didn't know if there was an innuendo in his statement or not but there was some genuine concern in it so I decided to let it slide.

I shook my head on the bed, generating static electricity by rubbing my hair on the sheets. "No, I'm fine."

"Liar," he called me. He was sitting down beside my head. I had felt the sudden shift in weight towards him.

"So what if I am?"

My retorted was light and he only shrugged at it. "I don't know, _so what_?"

There was no more talking after that. We just sat there, pondering what he had just said. At least, I was pondering. I wasn't sure if he was just waiting for me to make a move. It was like a game of chess. However, we were taking an extensively long time to take our next turns. It was just me, though. He was always quick to reply. I just sat quietly.

Eventually, Leroy got bored of the silence and broke it. "I'm going to go, alright?" There was really no need to ask me. It wasn't like I wouldn't have consented. He was free to leave if he so wished. It was just more of a force of habit and informative, anyway.

Before I knew it, all was silent and I had fallen asleep.

* * *

The next morning, I was woken by the unnecessary loud noise of birds first thing in the morning. Only the light beneath my eyes told me that the sun had risen and it was indeed morning. I didn't no otherwise. That also told me that it was rather early since I couldn't hear Ulquiorra or Leroy in the other room or John in our room. I decided to stay there.

I was still in my day clothes, forgetting to brush my teeth and shower the previous night. I didn't feel that disgusting, though.

I didn't want to open my eyes. It wasn't so much that I wanted to be truly woken by the sunlight that I didn't want to come back to the real world. I liked living in my dreams. It had a nice ring to it, too. More than that, though. I didn't want to be here, though—not in this time or in this place. I wanted to go back to when I was little, to before I met Ulquiorra. I then realized that I wouldn't have had this trouble. I also realized that, more than ever, I liked this trouble. It meant I was alive—_truly_ alive—and living my life as _me_ more than who I was _supposed_ to be for either my age or my family or useless rules.

Why was it that I wasn't truly "me" until Ulquiorra had come into my life? Or, was it that "me" had changed since Ulquiorra had come? What made me worry was that I wasn't entirely sure about either choices I had given myself. I was sure that there was no inbetween, though.

Everything now, though, felt so ridiculously _surreal_. Somehow, though, my mind wandered back to the scars—_his_ scars. They were marks of his past.

I wondered very briefly if I had any marks of my past. Living the life that I had lead, shouldn't I have had more? I realized, then, that I did.

In my mind, I could see them. I had a peculiarly shaped birthmark that wasn't really shaped like anything even if you squinted really hard. It was just a blob. That was on the back of my left knee. I had a scar from the time that my little sister was a baby and I had to wrestle to put her in her crib. She had bitten me on my left arm just above my elbow. There were a few, little teeth marks there—they were her first teeth, if I recalled correctly. I had a knife scar next to my left eyebrow from the first time I had sparred with my brother and he had unexpectedly pulled a dagger on me. It wasn't to hurt me. It was to teach me to expect the unexpected. How, even with that lesson, had I not expected this? I nearly wondered aloud. I couldn't have, though. My body had fallen asleep again. My mind was very awake, though. I had another mark—a small burn mark—it was from the first time I had sparred with my _father_. It wasn't too long ago, either. It was only last year. It had been a celebration of me turning thirteen—an adult, to them (my parents). It had been in the underground room that we had. There wasn't any electricity (therefore, no lights) there because my father liked it there. There were, instead, torches lit with fires. Very old, yes, but my father liked that. Six in total lined the four walls. We had sparred there with my mother, brother, and sister watching. I had to dodge and was very narrowly hit. Instead, I had knocked into a torch and knocked it off the wall and onto the ground—the _stone_ ground—and had backed into it very foolishly. There was a small burn scar on my left heel from that. We hadn't stopped even after that, though. I had another one—a mark for every family member, I realized. It was on the palme of my right hand, a small line that could barely be seen. But, it was there. In fact, there had been several more but only that one, the deepest one, had remained as a scar. It had been the time that I ran away from home when I was seven or eight. I had run through a patch of bushes and hadn't realized that there were thorns. I had gotten several lodged firmly in my hand. I remember pulling out my pocketknife and cutting the branch off because I couldn't take my hand out. I had to go home after that. My mother had so kindly bandaged my hand back together. The reason I had ran away was a silly one. I had failed a test and hadn't wanted to show my mother. The irony was that she told me, after all the trouble I had gone through, that she had seen the test already and had been alright with it.

I had marks in my past, too. Why was it that I hadn't realized this earlier? It would have saved me _so_ much trouble.

Besides, there was _so_ much more of Ulquiorra's past that I needed to find out. I wasn't even entirely sure, then, just _how much more_ there was that I _needed_ and _should have_ known about Ulquiorra before I took the oh-so-ridiculously hasty step of falling in love with him too quickly. I think that I finally acknowledged it, then. It had been a finishing blow to see the marks—like a symbol of trust. My collapsing must have been horrible to him, I realized. It must have been painful, too. How could I have done that? I then thought to the scars and realized how.

The man, Ulquiorra's father or not, who had done that was _disgusting_. _That_ was what had repulsed me. Why was I always so slow?

In my mind, I was running. I was running to the white light at the end of the tunnel—the light of consciousness. Oh, but it was taking _so_ long. I needed to wake up. I needed to find Ulquiorra. I needed to tell him so many things—so many things that he _needed_ to know, too. I needed to find out what happened in his past—everything else that led up to that event and everything after that. I needed to...

I needed to _wake up_.

And, I did. When I did, though, I realized that I wasn't in the same place that I had been earlier. I couldn't see the warm, familiar wallpaper that had been in the hotel room. What had happened? Where was I?

The walls were white and far-too-sterile. It reeked of disinfectant and sanitizing products. Everything looked pasty as far as my eyes could see. I felt like I wasn't in the softer, warmer hotel bed sheets either. It was almost like I was lying in someone else's bed.

Then, I heard it—a distant beeping that drew me to a machine that I quickly realized that I was hooked up to. It was monitoring my heart rate, as I could see. There was also an IV hooked up to my arm. It didn't take me long to realize that I was in a hospital.

Why, though?

I could see no one to ask that question. No one else was in this room.

There was only me in this room, staring at the bleak, white hospital wall. I felt ludicrously bored. Where were people when you actually wanted them around? Where was Leroy? Where was John? Where was _Ulquiorra_?

Another question among the others that had come and the others I had already had came into my mind. I hadn't wondered this before but, now that I was here, I begna to wonder.

What was going on?

The lack of answers was really beginning to bother me.


	9. Bonus I: Hazel Eyes

**Bonus 1: Hazel Eyes**

It's been, at the very least, an entire year since I have seen my brother. No, I shall re-phrase that. It has been, at least, an entire year since my brother has seen _me_. Who am I? I'm glad you asked. My name is Pierre, Pierre Jeagerjaques. My brother—by now, you should all know him—is Grimmjow Jeagerjaques.

My assigned task is to, essentially, "watch over him". The exact words of my mother are "Keep tabs on your little brother, okay? Thank you!". And, that's why I'm here—_right now_.

People could call it stalking. I'd rather not, though. We are family, after all. My mother wanted me to do this so I am doing this.

I will not boast but I'd be lying if I said it wasn't true. I am the best tracker in our family—the Jeagerjaques. Thus, it would make sense to send me after him. On top of that, Father and Mother are always busy. The family business is still flourishing. Marie is much too young to do something like this. This, whether true or not, is considered, by Mother, to be an "important mission". I can't say "no", can I? No, I cannot. Grandfather is just as busy as Father is and Grandmother has retired. Besides, they would be much too conspicuous. I'm only four years older than Grimmjow so it's inconspicuous to have someone within or closer to, at least, the school's age range to be "sneaking around" campus.

So, this is my report. Well, more precisely, this is what I've seen the past two months that I have been "lurking around" here. Grimmjow wouldn't like it if he found out, though. That much I am sure of. But, I'm not here for his like so it doesn't matter in that sense.

* * *

It's been two months since I've had to follow im around—since March, I believe—and there hasn't been much change in the first few months. He would spend time with his friends—a lot with Leroy, I noticed—and eat, sleep, study, go to his classes. There was nothing out of the ordinary in his day-to-day behaviour. I was beginning to wonder exactly _why_ I had even been _asked_ to watch over my brother—my _oblivious_ little brother, completely unaware of everyone's feelings, insensitive to a _fault_—probably even worse than I am, and, as much as I would hate to say and as much as I am ashamed to even _admit_ in this report, just a _little bit_ (note the sarcasm) stupid. Yes, my brother is a complete _idiot_. And, I don't even mean in his _studies_ yet. That, in and of itself, is an _entirely_ different story—most of which I do not wish to speak of. His grades are..._faltering_, I suppose you could say. Oh, it pains me to even mention this shameful fact. My brother, he..._honestly_, I was expecting even a _little_ bit better, perhaps? After all, grades in the seventies—no, even in the low eighties—are _unacceptable_. He should know this. Nonetheless, I must go on.

These few months have been horrible, though. As requested by Mother, I had to follow Grimmjow on his trip—currently residing in Le Havre. Or, more precisely, he is currently residing in Le Havre's _hospital_. As for me, I am sitting beside his bed even as I write this report. Mother said she would be flying here soon to see him. She worries to much, I say. Nonetheless, if _Grimmjow_, of all the people for it to be, is hospitalized, I suppose she does have warranted worry. When Grimmjow comes to, I will give him a good talking-to. I think he needs it, too. He's such a disobedient child. It's why he was sent here in the first place so that may be a small piece of redundancy on my part.

The most surprising to me, though, is seeing Grimmjow's eyes closed. His bold, blue hair is one thing but it's the fact that it's natural and that he has equally bright blue eyes to match. I don't know what came out wrong in his genetic make-up but something certainly _did_ for him to have that _forsaken_ hair colour. No doubt, none of us have it. The blue eyes are from our mother. That, I am sure of. She, Marie, and Grimmjow are the only ones with blue eyes—crystalline blue eyes that are clearer than the sky on a summer afternoon. Those blue eyes were the same that struck fear into every single soul that had lived to tell the tale—that, of course, is if there _are_ any. My mother is thorough, to say the least. If anything aside from those sapphires he has for eyes, he picked that up from our mother. It is one of the few qualities that I respect in my brother. He is my brother, though. He is a member of the Jeagerjaques family, if that says anything about him. It would be an insult to, not only us but, him if he didn't understand the workings of an assassination. Of course, he, being the "prodigy" of our family in terms of killing, made him above most and, if I could say so, nearly all of us. Of course, that is only in the art of killing—murder. _Silent_ killing is our father's specialty—something Grimmjow learned from him. Arson is our mother's—something Grimmjow never really learned how to utilize if not to the best of his abilities, to _any_ of his abilities. Nonetheless, I should speak of what he is good at, no? Yes, of course—I must. So, I suppose that starting off with the worst and working my way up is no problem either, no? Yes, no problem at all—is it?

If I assume that to be the case, I will start with ruthlessness. I would not go so far as to declare him a _wimp_ but, according to our family's high, prestigious (if not a bit too low for Grimmjow) standards, he is. By society's _basic_ standards and _fundamental_ understanding of what a killer is, he is brutal, ruthless, and cunning. If that says anything for his personality, be my guest and try to figure it out. I'd rather not talk about it, anyway. It's nothing ot be proud of. After all, even _Marie_ (for crying out loud, she's only _ten_—barely even _eleven_ yet) is more ruthless than he is. (Of course, she _was_ nicknamed—by which I mean given an assassin's proper name, a pseudonym for our work—"Merciless Marie". If that says anything about her at all, it should be easily comprehensible.) If it's any comparison worth comparing to, even _I_ am more ruthless than he is. Alright, I may be his _older_ brother but I am not exactly the most cold-blooded of our family. No, our father and Marie are the worst _of_ the worst. I can't find a better comparison, really. It isn't even a _slight_ understatement. I wish it was, sometimes. I must continue, though. I am the most stone-faced but not the most cold-blooded. It is a trait I didn't develop soon enough. Marie, on the other hand, she...might have developed that trait _much_ sooner—actually, it's something Mother and Father are quite proud of. Grimmjow, on a _completely_ different note, hasn't a single ruthless bone _in_ him. He _never_ did get to become without regret of killing—he was never able to detach himself from each job. It's silly and petty and foolish—it's human—and, therefore, not even _slightly_ allowed (not in our books, anyway—we don't keep paper documents, though—that would be leaving a definite, traceable, _tangible_ trail). Grimmjow is pitiful, in my mind. I _do_ pity him—if only a little bit. See? I am not cold-blooded, not in the least. Marie would only laugh. The girl is horrifying _and_ terrifying. I hold a true-born fear of her—a _warranted_ fear, too. I need to stop talking about Marie. Right—onto Grimmjow again.

His _marksmanship_—oh, I can't even _start_ on that subject—is _miserable_. He could shoot an apple off a person's head with a gun, yes; with a bow and arrow, yes; with a spear, yes; with _anything_, yes. _But_, he cannot shoot it off _blindfolded_! That is _ridiculous_! His skills are not even considerably _mediocre_ if he cannot even manage _that_ feat! I hold shame merely _saying_ this. Of course, who am I to speak In terms of _that_, in our family, that is what _I_ excel the most in—it is _my_ specialty. In order to disguise my lack of cold-bloodedness, it is best I do not view my victims. I am more of a long-range killer, myself. I suppose it suits me—my style, to be exact. So, that is how I kill. I will not boast here but state the truth—I can shoot a (on a human, preferably) target beind my back in the pitch black of night in the blink of an eye—aiming and shooting at the same time. I like to do things as such—speed and agility make the kill swifter. I'm not quite as...hm...is cruel the correct word to use here? I suppose it is. I'm not quite as _cruel_ as Marie or Grimmjow who both enjoy the sight of gore and blood. But, unlike Grimmjow, I don't feel the guilt after the kill. Our positive points and negative points balance each other out, then, I suppose. I only have so much time to spend on this, though. Let's move onto the next topic, now.

You know what? I don't want to talk about this. There is _so_ much I could cover. However, there isn't as much _time_. Time is of value here. There are things that I could say. There are things that I cannot say. There are things that should be spoken of. There are things that _shouldn't_ be spoken of. However, it doesn't matter, now. I have things to do—things to cover; things to remember; things to say. So, I will do as such. I can only do as such.

Now, onto the subject of the present—this new boy, Ulquiorra—is a spectacle to behold himself. Something in Grimmjow has either begun to tick—tick _properly_ (I am happy for him—I am his brother, after all)—or something in him has _changed_—changed for the _better_, as far as I can see. Despite being a normal child—despite growing up, even with a slightly more..._deprived_ childhood—he was never quite so _passionate_ with _anything_, really (killing _definitely_ being one of the lesser thrills and joys of his life). Well, he was never really passionate about _anything_ until Ulquiorra came along. It's not so much that he sparked _light_ into his life. No, he sparked...dare I say it, _love_ into his life. I know that this is far beyond a risky trial among us assassins—even fooling around with such a strong emotion as love is considered "dangerous" and "risky"—but I'm proud of him. Perhaps, he is ill-suited to kill. He has always pressed that fact himself. Nevertheless, our parents are insistent, expectant ones. Grimmjow, really, has no goal—no plans—for his future. I suppose that my parents, being who they are, handed down the family business along with a set of responsibilities—a full set, too. I don't feel sorry for him, not in the least. I'm just...extremely _proud_ of him. He found a spark in his life. To me, _any_ spark in his life makes me proud of him. The "sparks" in one's life are what truly make it worthwhile, right? Even someone like me has an understanding of that—if not a lot, an inkling, I would like to think. I have...my own spark in my life. That isn't for me to speak about right now. Grimmjow would love to bother me about that if he were to find out, though—I am sure of that, oh-so-sure.

Grimmjow is Grimmjow. There are no two-ways about that. I am his older brother, Pierre Jeagerjaques. There are no two-ways about that, either. I am proud of who my little brother is—who he _truly_ is. What else can I say? We're Jeagerjaques. We're born like this—hard-headed and driven. He was, too. It's what defines us—maybe even stronger than who we really are. No, I don't mean the Jeagerjaques name (though, that _is_ definite and concrete and, most of all, a description—a general outline—of who we are), I mean our determination that is stronger than anything in this world—in _any_ world—and our bonds that are so close that there is nothing, I would like to believe, that could _ever_ tear us apart.

* * *

I am still sitting in Grimmjow's hospital room. My little brother is hospitalized. Somehow, that worries me less than it really should. Mother is flying over. In fact, she called only a few minutes ago to confirm that her flight had indeed landed. A chauffeur was sent to pick her up. I suppose that our family really does have connections _everywhere_. That frightens me a little bit, actually. What frightens me more, though, is the fact that I am stuck here watching Grimmjow (I won't lie when I say that I do, in fact, agree with those who say that I have, quite literally, _no life_) while normal children—adolescents, if you prefer—my age would be graduating high school or just beginning to attend university or college—whichever it may be. Meanwhile, I am in a hospital room—it's so pale and _drab_ that even that is frightening in itself—watching my younger brother, the age of fourteen, unconscious, sprawled out on a hospital bed, snoring soundly. I really need to get a life—find something more..._productive_ to do.

I can't say that I don't miss my "spark". Wherever they may be, though, I _do_ miss them.

If Grimmjow ever gets the backbone to bring Ulquiorra home—to have Ulquiorra meet our parents and family—I think he will find an unexpected ally on his side. Above all of that, though, I would like to congratulate my little brother even if he may not see, read, or know of this. He may never know how truly proud I am of him. He may never know how truly happy I am for him. However, he will know that I am fully supportive.

I would very much like to meet Ulquiorra in person. He seems like such a pleasant character—as quiet and as reclusive as I am. It would do some good for him to get out, really. Who am I to judge, though? It isn't as though I am any better. I would like to talk to him—about Grimmjow and about him. I think another reason I am willing to back Grimmjow up on this, if he so decides, is because Ulquiorra is who he is. He is somewhat like me and I believe that we would get along well. I can't say the same for Marie, though. She's...entirely indifferent to most of Grimmjow's decisions. In fact, she's so indifferent that it is to somewhat of a childish degree. Mostly to Grimmjow, more than to anyone else, it is frustrating to deal with. I can't say I appreciate it too much either. Mother spoils her. Anyway, I would like to meet Ulquiorra.

I think that, somewhere in my heart—however secluded and frozen over it may be—I _do_ want the two to be together. They fit together like two pieces of a puzzle. If even _I_ can see it and tell, it is only a mattero f time, I suppose. I do hope the day comes.

In the same respect, I hope Grimmjow will be happy. I am his brother, after all.

What more can I say about Grimmjow; about Ulquiorra; about him _and_ Ulquiorra? Nothing much, really—I suppose that is the answer. So, I'll suffice it to say that I do love my little brother. Now, if you'll excuse me, I think Grimmjow is waking up. I wonder what his reaction will be to seeing me. One can only guess, no?

Grimmjow Jeagerjaques—my little brother—I can only wonder what has become of you. I suppose that I am going to find out, now.

* * *

**Author's Note:**_ I know that this was short. I'm sorry. Still, though, oh my gosh...this is already past the seventh chapter? I never, actually, thought I would get this far without _too_ much procrastinating. I kind of want to pat myself on the back right now but that would be totally egotistical. I'm surprised at myself, though. Honest. _Mon Espoir_, originally, in my head, was planned out to be around thirty chapters. I'm not entirely sure if it will be that long. However, I think it's a pretty close estimate. So, you guys are going to be stuck with me for a long, long time. Okay, this is written in present tense because any OCs will _not_ show up in Hueco Mundo, no? So, therefore, it has to be written as if it is happening at the moment. At least, that is what _I_ think. I'm the one writing it so I guess my opinion will make it as such because uh...I'm writing this? Other things: the reason I didn't have an "Author's Note" since the _Prologue_ is because, well, I didn't want it to be deceiving. "It" being the number of words in this story. I've always been frustrated when I happen upon a story that seems to be nice and long and...word-ful? Yeah...and then it turns out that the "Author's Note" is _extremely, ridiculously_ long (not that I don't like reading those because I, honestly, do—it's fun to see the writer's take on their own story) which makes it er...misleading. So, yes... Oh, yes! One more thing before I go! I know that the seventh chapter had a _horrible_ cliffhanger, didn't it? (I would have been frustrated, too, as a reader. Don't worry.) It wasn't planned, though. So, I didn't make it there just to torture you. Honest. No lies. And then, right after the dreadful cliffhanger, there's _this_. If you smashed your computer in and are _really_ pissed off at me, please hear me out. (Poor, poor computer...) I had been meaning to put this—there will be more than just this one bonus chapter—since I started writing _Mon Espoir_. I had to wait it out, though—wait for the best time, too. I'm probably more impatient than all of you combined so I set a time for myself—after chapter seven. Of course, I hadn't predicted this cliffhanger to be here—to even be _in_ the story. However, it was a real "Eureka!" moment for me so that was why it was there. Then, I realized, "Oh, I'm doing the bonus chapter after this! ...Oopsies." So, I apologize. Chapter eight should be finished by the end of this week, if not earlier. I was going to update yesterday but I found myself with a mild writer's block and wasn't able to. Sorry. Even as I'm writing this now, I can't post it. Why? Well, first of all, there isn't any internet service here. Second of all, I am currently residing in China. It's a twelve-hour difference from where I live in Canada so I'm jet-lagging horribly. It's 2:30 in the morning here, right now. It's kind of good to be here in China—where my mom and dad are from. It's a family trip and all so we have quite a bit of things planned out for tomorrow so I should really be getting some shut-eye. Good night (or morning; or afternoon) to you all. I will be taking my leave, now. I love you all and thank you. Now, this will be the first time that I'll ask and I'll probably ask, I don't know, once in each bonus chapter? (There are quite a few that I have planned to have.) I would appreciate it greatly, too. Thank you again to all who have reviewed. I _do_ read and reply to _all_ reviews. Check your private messages inbox if you don't believe me. _

**R&R. Please. Thank you.**


	10. Chapter VIII: Acquaintance and Reacquai

**Chapter 8: Acquaintance and Re-acquaintance**

I woke up. That was the first thing I recall doing. The second thing was that I saw my brother, Pierre, sitting beside me in one of the visitors' chairs. I remember that the first thing I thought was "What the _heck_ is my brother doing here?".

Oh, that's right. You don't know Pierre, do you? He was my older brother—four years older, to be exact.

The question I had thought, apparently, was the same question that I asked. Well, it came out more like "What the _heck_ are _you_ doing _here_?"—directed at Pierre, of course, his presence being the only other in the room.

He didn't answer, though. He just shrugged, looking at me in a bored manner. I knew that look. If he was going to be the only one here, he would explain. But, someone else had to be coming so he wouldn't explain. That annoyed me. And, on that same note, I wondered _who_ was coming.

... Oh no. Oh no, no, no, no, no. _No_, this was _not_ happening.

_That_ person was _not_ coming.

Unfortunately, life _hated_ me and, also unfortunately, _that_ person _was_ coming. Who was "that person"? Well, "that person" was incredibly loud, incredibly frustrating, worried too much, always doted on me, and, worst of all, was my _mother_.

Just then, the door swung violently open. I cringed as it collided harshly with the wall. I could only imagine what sort of dent the protruding doorknob had made—a considerable one, I would think. I could hear brisk footsteps pacing over to my bed and a loud voice wailing, "Grimmy!"

Yes, life most _definitely_ hated me.

"_Maman_," I hissed, my eyes still screwed shut, "je m'appelle _Grimmjow_, pas '_Grimmy_'."

She threw her arms around me and pulled me into a suffocating embrace, nuzzling into my head. "Mais, je veux appeller toi 'Grimmy'. C'est mignon!" To that, I only growled. It was so _not_ cute. Somewhere in the room, I swear that Pierre was snickering at me. Bastard.

Apparently, my mother wasn't the only one who had come.

An annoying, childish voice bit out viciously, "Grimmjow! Idiote!" I received a smack on the head after that. Damn if it didn't hurt. My mother released me after. I had only a few seconds to gasp and wheeze for air so as to regain proper oxygen levels in my body.

"Quoi?!" I choked out angrily, "Marie! Que fais-tu ici?!"

"Je suis ici parce que tu es," she started, gesturing towards the machine I had been hooked up to quickly, "comme _ça_. Tu es pènible, _comprends_?! Une vraie _idiote_!" That _thing_ was my _stupid_ little sister, Marie.

"Marie!" my mother scolded her gently, tapping her on the shoulder.

"Fucked up" was a light term when used to describe my mismatched family. Heck, my family made "fucked up" look _normal_ and "psychotic" look sane! Oh, did I mention that my father was an elite assassin in the assassin business? I didn't even need to ask why he wasn't there—he had work, how typical. Sometimes, I questioned that, though. He might have had an aversion to seeing me, too. That, or he thought that I needed to learn "independence"—whatever that was supposed to mean to him.

Before I could argue with Marie, though, there was a soft knock on the doorframe. All three of us turned to see who it was.

"Hello," the person at the door greeted us lightly, bowing, "Mrs. Jeagerjaques, Pierre, Marie," He addressed us each individually, too, with a slight pause before finishing, "Grimmjow. I'm glad to see that you're finally awake, Grimm."

I rolled my eyes. _That _I know for sure. "It's good to see you again, too, Roy."

Leroy grinned at me unrepentantly, showing his teeth. He stepped into the room, then turned to look behind him, ushering two others into the room. Before I could see who they were, my mother had rushed to the door, exclaiming, "It's _so_ good to see you again!" She had hugged someone, I could see. They were hugging her, too. The other was standing somewhere behind them, relatively passively, I assumed.

When my mother released the person she was holding, I saw who the two were. One was a rather expected face—Ulquiorra, who wasn't the one she had hugged—the other was Lis. Her full name was Elisabeth Jules. I knew her pretty well. She was one of my few friends. Leroy knew her even better—had known her since he was _six_, I believe. They were childhood friends—good ones, too. It seemed normal for her to tag along with him.

When she saw me hooked up to the machine, though, she seemed panicked, her earlier calm expression fading into worry and panic. "Grimmjow!" Unlike Leroy, she hadn't taken on his silly nickname, "Are you alright?!" She was by my bed, at that time.

I nodded in affirmation, smiling vaguely at her. She was known for worrying too much. "Yeah, I'm fine, Lis." She then smiled at me, stepping away. She only needed to hear me say it and mean it to believe me. She wasn't like other girls who pestered you and insisted that you weren't okay. I liked that about her—it made her seem more personable.

Ulquiorra stepped forward after her. My breath hitched. I then noticed that he was frowning. He walked closer, still frowning, before saying, "You're an idiot." I nodded anyway. "You made me worry." he added. I nodded again. "Don't do it again." I could tell that that was an order. I nodded again. "Good." And, that was all he said before stepping back and sitting down in a chair. I could hear Leroy chuckling softly to himself and I swear that I saw Pierre smile just a little bit.

My mother was the first to interrupt. "Who's this, Grimmy?" she asked excitedly. She loved it when I made friends—a bit too much.

I braced myself. "He's a friend of mine," I replied. "His name's Ulquiorra."

Ulquiorra bowed graciously. "It's nice to meet you." he said politely.

My mother loved it even more when I made nice, polite friends.

She smiled widely, nearly squealing in delight. "Grimmy made a friend!" she announced, sounding much too overly joyous. Marie rolled her eyes, which escaped my mother's not-so-watchful (Okay, that's a lie. It's more like she didn't bother to reprimand her about that) eyes. Pierre's face remained stoic. My mother? She hugged Ulquiorra—_tightly_.

Ulquiorra's eyes bulged slightly, a bit shocked. I couldn't blame him for that. Who could _possibly_ expect that? Oh, right—_me_. This was _my_ bizarre-o mother, after all—born and raised by her. I'm not sure if I should be ashamed or proud or just downright _afraid_ of that fact. Well, it's not like it matters anyway.

He looked like he would suffocate. If she didn't let go soon, he probably would do just that. Thankfully, she did let go after much squirming on Ulquiorra's part and much insisting on Pierre's part that Ulquiorra's face turning blue was neither natural nor healthy for him. He thanked Pierre—_very_ much. He _had_ saved his life. That might not be an entire exaggeration. My mother _was_ an assassin—she was still in practice then, too.

I leaned back in my bed, nuzzling my head further into the none-too-comfortable, stark white pillow. It was large, I'd give it that much, at least.

The next thing I knew, Pierre had herded everyone out of the room—everyone save for Ulquiorra. That surprised me—both what Pierre had done and who was left.

"You're horrible." Ulquiorra told me—straight to my face. I couldn't help but agree—reluctantly, of course.

"I know."

He nodded, confirming that. I sighed. So, this was how it would go, wouldn't it? Briefly, I wondered how long I had been out. A second thought wandered aimlessly across my mind, too—had anyone come to visit me while I was here? The sweet-smelling lilacs sitting in a clear vase on my bedside table told me yes. Of course, I wanted to hear it from the person who had come. The lilacs also told me who to expect.

I didn't ask, though—that was the strange part. Instead, I thanked him—thanked him for bothering to visit me; bothering himself with me. He didn't tell me that I was welcome. I knew that I wasn't welcome, though—this wouldn't be happening again, anyway.

I closed my eyes for a moment, pondering something trivial and useless, before opening them again for yet another trivial and useless reason. I took notice that Ulquiorra had switched positions—he was currently seated at the edge of my bed rather than standing far behind the end of it where he had previously been. It made me smile. Not many people caught me when I was off guard—not even my family. Leroy and Mother were usually exceptions to that, though. That was to be expected, though, right? Familiarity and trust tore down personal barriers like the tide did to sandcastles—easily, swiftly, and painlessly.

The proximity, oddly enough but expectedly, didn't put me at unease. I felt perfectly fine with him right there with me—my killer's instinct hadn't flicked the "on" switch just yet. That one word alone made me tense up, though—"yet". But, the reason made me relax—for fear of hurting him.

Was this the reason Pierre had left? In the mere seconds he had been here, had he seen? Why was it moments like these that I thought of the most insignificant things? Why was it moments like these that I felt like, out of all the people I knew and out of all the people that shouldn't have known more than I did, I knew the least?

It was insignificant, though. My stupidity felt palpable.

"How have you been?" Ulquiorra asked me—asked me as if he knew that my mind had wandered to things of lesser importance.

I would have shrugged had I not seen that his hand had fallen from his lap to the bed—just beside his thigh. It was a sign that he was beginning to feel comfortable, I knew. I decided sincerity and forethought would be the best, now. "I don't know." For a moment, I wondered if that really meant more than a shrug? I suppose it did, though. It must have been why I had chosen to speak rather than shrug. A shrug just seemed so much more half-hearted than I felt, I suppose. "How long have I been gone?"

He seemed to think for a moment, trying to recall just how long in order to answer my question. Halfway through that thought, he seemed to give up on trying to remember, his eyebrows knitting together in frustration. "About," his voice trailed a little at that one word before it grew stronger and he continued, "a day, I think—you've been asleep for nearly a day." That was good. I hadn't been out for long.

"Oh," I half-said, half-muttered.

Ulquiorra nearly rolled his eyes for some reason that wasn't given. Well, he was yet to give the reason, anyway. "You're out of commission for one day and you're already reduced to a nervous wreck?" Of course, he had no compassion for the person who had been shoved in a hospital for some unknown reason. Speaking of unknown reasons, why was I here in the first place?

Also, speaking of unknown reasons, why was it that Ulquiorra knew the answer to my, I thought, anyway, non-spoken-out-loud question?

"Heart attack." He always did that, didn't he? He just spoke the answer so outright and so abruptly that I never knew what he was talking about, at first, usually. "You had a heart attack—something about stress and whatnot. You're such an idiot."

Of course, that was something he would do.

I, like the _idiot_ I was, let myself groan. "You're annoying, too. Don't go around calling me an idiot, _idiot_."

"You don't have a right to talk."

"What are you—"

He cut me off with an unexpected growl. "_You_, of all people, _hardly_ have a right to talk." I became steadily more and more wary of the fact that Ulquiorra was beginning to breathe harder and sharper. Was something bothering him?

"Even if that's true, you don't need to call me an _idiot_," I retorted nearly instinctually—as though it was a reflex of some sort or another. That was strange. Had I truly become _this_ accustomed to Ulquiorra's presence and his actions (particularly, his _re_actions, might I add)? It felt strange to know someone like him... well? Was that the word to use?

He seemed to calm down abruptly for some strange reason. "Yes, well," he exhaled deeply, "I find it necessary when describing someone like you."

Of course, he would say that. The only thing strange about the situation was that I didn't reject that comment, this time. Of course, the silence also seemed to cue Leroy in. And, that he did—tumbling through the door with all his extravagance. The door slammed shut behind him but not of his own actions. In fact, he hadn't even come in of his own accord, so it seemed.

"What is it, Roy?" I snapped, irritated. I didn't like being interrupted.

He laughed sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck as a nervous habit. "I was just checking on you guys. It got too bloody silent for— er..." He seemed to correct his statement before finishing. "_My_ taste." He nodded at that, seeming to agree with himself—a nod of satisfaction. It was some concocted reason, quite obviously.

I muttered something beneath my breath similar to "It's got nothing to do with _your_ taste". Leroy didn't hear it, though.

"Everything is fine."

That was Ulquiorra's voice interrupting. I _hated_ interruptions, damn it.

"Who are you kidding? There is _no way_ that everything is 'okay', you—" I fell immediately silent. I hadn't noticed when Leroy had stepped out of the room. Apparently, though, he had. That was all I knew. "Great," I mumbled unhappily. Glancing up at Ulquiorra, I let out a reluctant sigh. "Look," I started, "I don't want to argue with you right after waking up, alright? I've got a nasty headache to boot."

Ulquiorra glared at me—glared _pointedly_—before he, just as reluctantly as I had, gave in.

"Even?" I pressed.

"Even," he agreed. Of course, he had to name his conditions. "As long as you admit that you're an idiot."

I grimaced—not entirely unpredictable. I couldn't say that I hadn't expected that. "Define 'idiot'." I winced inwardly. Asking him to give an exact definition was almost the same as saying that I would acknowledge being one—so long as I knew what I was acknowledging.

"You," came the sarcastic reply—there was always an honest one to match, though. It came after a pause. "An idiot is someone who does stupid things and makes people worry excessively—you're an idiot." By "stupid things" he meant "passing out for an entire day" and by "people" he meant "himself"—at least, in this context.

Begrudgingly, I agreed. Ulquiorra seemed satisfied with that—he wouldn't ask for more, then. That was a good thing. It was calm for a few moments—a few moments before I decided to pose a question. "When do I get out of here?" I asked tentatively.

There was hesitation as he raised his head and even hesitation in his tone as he replied. "A couple days, give or take?"

Knowing me, tomorrow sounded like a good time for me to leave. Knowing him, he would "worry excessively", therefore deeming me an idiot. I didn't like that. "I'm used to injuries—external or internal." There wasn't meant to be any subtext in that but, as soon as I had said it, I noticed it. However, he didn't. Besides, to him, I was just musing to myself. "I heal quickly." I was trying to reassure him without making it seem as though I was making a conscious effort to do so.

Ulquiorra nodded—a little more positively, now. "That's good."

I almost told him not to worry. However, I didn't, though. That would have ended our little game. It also would have meant that I would have lost—how I _hated_ losing.

This conversation was getting monotonous and tedious—too tedious for my liking. I decided to steer this conversation into an alternate direction. "Did John tell you what happened? I'm guessing you found out before the class did." I questioned—that topic seemed fairly conversational.

"Connected rooms," he pointed out, bored, giving me the "you're stupid" look. "Besides, Leroy was going to wake you up this morning, idiot." I immediately regretted agreeing to that nickname. Aside from "trash", Ulquiorra seemed to be quite fond of that one word, too. I had just added one more ridiculous, annoying, _stupid_ nickname to the list I already had. That was great—_really_. Take note of the sarcasm, please.

"Right," I answered in my signature "as if I would know" tone of voice. He caught that immediately as he did everything else. He didn't pay it any heed, though. That was typical of Ulquiorra. If it didn't matter, he wouldn't care. I didn't like where this conversation was going either, though. So, I changed the subject again. "So, you met my freakish mother and er...my awkward brother and my brat of a little sister?"

Ulquiorra smirked—a knowing smirk. "If by 'freakish mother' you are referring to the woman who very nearly strangled me to death, yes." He raised a brow curiously here. "Your brother didn't seem awkward—a tad quiet, but I like that. And, as for your sister, she seemed..." He struggled to find the right word. I stifled a laugh. It wasn't good, his opinion of her. "She's a bit estranged... The only thing I didn't quite get, though, was your French—next time, speak slower."

"If I speak slower, I'll sound like an _idiot_." I mimicked him when he called me an idiot.

"Don't you always?"

I opened my mouth to answer that but my jaw snapped shut abruptly. I didn't feel like bothering, for some odd, unexplainable reason.

Ulquiorra asked another question, then. I didn't even know why, at the time. "Who is Lis?" The way he had said it, it sounded like the most normal thing in the world not to know your classmates. After a few seconds of prolonged silence, he corrected himself, seeing as to how I could not answer his previous question, "Who is Lis to you?"

"A friend?" I offered as a reply, my voice rising a bit at the end as an intonation, demonstrating my confusion. "Why are you asking?"

"Never mind,"

So, I left it at that.

"Let's let everyone else in." I wasn't sure if I had said that or if it had been Ulquiorra. One of us agreed to the other's decision, though.

I couldn't help but wonder. What had Ulquiorra meant? I mean, '_to me_'? What was he trying to say? Oh well, it was beyond me, really. I thought back to my family, scrunching my face together in a distasteful expression. Oh, that was right, they were coming in again, too—_along_ with Leroy and Lis.

I closed my eyes and fell asleep. They would just have to deal with the rest of this visit with me _asleep_. Why? Well, that would be because I didn't want to deal with it just _then_.

As I dozed off, I couldn't help but think—not all acquaintances had been the most pleasant today; not all the re-acquaintances had been pleasant today, either. From that, though, now I know, I learned only one lesson—fate _hated_ me (and still does) from the very bottom of her very, very dark heart because this meeting—or, in some cases, _re_-meeting—whether it was designed by fate or not, was meant to happen, right?

Ulquiorra _had_ to meet my family _eventually_.

This way, though, had been the worst and most impossibly inconvenient way _to_ let it happen. I was yet to find out why, though. All I can say is that I probably fucking hate fate just as much as it hates me. Fate can be a real bitch, let me tell you.


	11. Chapter IX: Unwanted Suggestions

**Chapter 9: Unwanted Suggestions**

I woke up to find myself in the hospital again. That was all fine and dandy, honestly. I also realized that I must have woken up quite late at night because I could _hear_ the silence—there were no muffled groans of pain from rooms nearby, no doctors panicking at nurses being called from room to room, forcing them to run around like chickens without heads. Like I said, I could _hear_ the silence. I didn't _like_ the silence—that was a fact.

I sighed, turning my torso around to prop my pillow up behind me. Then, I sat myself up against it. This was painstakingly annoying. I hated being treated as though I was some sort of invalid (which, I wasn't). I really didn't understand why I even needed to be here anymore. Of course, precautions were precautions and trying to argue with my mother about my well-being was like trying to tell a brick to fly. Let's just say that it didn't work. Really, though, I wanted to return to my group. I wondered briefly if they had delayed the trip because of me. The teachers wouldn't like that. Plus, I didn't want to worry anyone—especially not Ulquiorra. Oh, I didn't want Lis to worry, too. She worried about me so much already.

As for Ulquiorra, well, I didn't want to be called an idiot. I was _not_ an idiot.

I fumbled around in the darkness to find the lamp on the bedside table. Managing to, somehow, find the switch, I turned it on, flinching as the light suddenly flooded the room. My eyes needed to take their time to adjust. I briefly (internally, of course) debated whether or not I should turn it off seeing as to how I had no real need for the light to be on. I decided that I wanted to leave it on, though. I didn't particularly enjoy the darkness. It only made the silence seem all the more tangible.

Since there was light, I could now see that there was indeed a clock in the room. It was hung neatly over the door.

Squinting slightly (but only because it was far from where I was seated), I saw that it was about five o'clock in the morning. Well, that was wonderful. I had woken up about three hours early of my usual time (I'm referring to the time we would wake up for the _trip_, not at school. For school, we were expected to be out of bed by six in the morning. Cruel, is it not?).

I decided to just sit there, leaning against my pillow, because, clearly, I couldn't fall asleep again.

I frowned, looking around the room.

Nothing—it was _too_ quiet. Well, I guess I couldn't complain about it. At least it wasn't noisy, right? Yes, it wasn't noisy. That was a good thing. Still, I couldn't help being a tad disturbed by the extensive silence.

I closed my eyes, attempting to block out the silence. It seemed I'd been sitting there for hours. Nothing changed, though. It was eerie, the quiet. I opened my eyes slightly, glancing back at the clock. Only a bare five minutes had truly passed. Of course, silence and darkness when combined with everything being unchanging, you get time slowing down or your perception of time slowing, at the very least.

That was an unnerving thought.

The only cure for this (that I could think of, anyway) was to sleep. So, sleep I did.

* * *

I hadn't even the slightest idea how much time had passed while I was sleeping. Some time had to have passed, though. Why? Well, when I awoke from my slumber again, I could see the sun seeping in through the window, unfiltered by the curtains that had been pulled apart. Clearly, someone else had entered the room while I was asleep. That bothered me a little bit—I was supposed to be a renowned assassin (of sorts, I suppose) and, somehow, they'd managed to get in here undetected while I was asleep. I wasn't trained as extensively as Pierre to wake to even the slightest sound. Still, it bothered me—if I were still working and at home, there could be numerous people out to get us. What if I _had_ been at home? What if someone _had_ gotten in—past my guard? I would have been screwed. You see, that's the reason it irked me. Of course, it bothered me less when I realized that I _wasn't_ at home and it couldn't _possibly_ have been anyone like that—it was just a nurse. Knowing that, I relaxed a little bit. Still, it was a bit worrisome that my highly honed skills were diminishing. That was bad—I needed to train more when I got home. I _definitely_ needed to. If I didn't, Marie would surely kill me. I wish I was kidding. After all, it wouldn't have been her first attempt—her _tests_ of my strength. I didn't believe it for a moment.

Of course, who _would_ believe it? Surely, only a fool would take her for her word. I was anything but, despite Ulquiorra's insisting that I, indeed, _was_ a fool. I didn't like insisting—it bore too much of a semblance to _pestering_. There were few things that I disliked more than pestering.

I frowned at the light in the room. The sun hadn't risen to its full and shining glory, yet, so it was just a mass of distorted reds, purples, pinks, and oranges—with occasional hints of blue. Really, I didn't like the sunset or sunrise that much. It was so... uninteresting. And, in many ways, it was disarming. Those two times during the day were the most useless—they were between night and day and, therefore, had no true purpose. It wasn't the night. It wasn't the day. What _was_ it, really? Exactly my point—it was useless.

The door opened suddenly, but slowly. Still, it alarmed me. I hadn't noticed it. Living here for so long was making me grow soft—a useless trait once I was to return home. That was a depressing thought. Anyway, I glanced towards the door, if just a tad curious. It was the nurse, though. It couldn't have been anyone else. It was much too early for that.

"Oh," she exclaimed, a little surprised. "Good morning." Her greeting was warm and friendly—not something I was used to. "You're awake early. I just started my shift here." She walked towards curtains, pulling them up properly rather than leaving them hanging. "Is there anything that you want? Breakfast, perhaps?" she asked.

I smiled a little at her. "Breakfast would be nice." I replied.

She nodded to me, smiling back. "Is there anything in particular that you'd like?"

I thought for a moment, my eyes wandering aimlessly around the room. "Strawberries," I began, sounding slightly disinterested, "and grilled cheese would be nice...with orange juice, I guess."

She looked somewhat surprised at my food choice. Chuckling softly, she said, "That's a strange choice. Oh, but we've had stranger." It was more to herself than directed to me, but that snagged my interest.

"Like what?" I asked, curious. It was the first time I took a good look at her. She looked in her early thirties—or, possibly, mid-thirties—and had loose curls in her dark brown hair. She had a tired, strained look in her hazel eyes but I figured that it came with the morning shift—waking up so early must have been a pain.

"Pickles," she answered, laughing gently. She had an incredibly warm personality. I took note of her heavy French accent when she had said that. I felt kind of slow for not noticing these things earlier. They were, before all of this, the first things I would notice—about every person, you had to notice these things. You had to be sharp with visual recognition or, if not, voice recognition—the slightest characteristics. So, I guess I felt like I was getting rusty at this. "There once was a man who stayed with us for a few nights." she elaborated, "He would have macaroni and cheese every morning with pickles. It was the strangest sight, really."

I laughed with her. "That is strange." I also noticed her occasional pauses in English. Clearly, it wasn't her first language. Feeling nice that day, I decided to switch to French for both of our comforts. "Alors," I went on, surprising her yet again. Speaking fluently in English must have made her feel as though she needed to speak English. Obviously, though, my French, being my native tongue, was just as fluent. "Où sont les toilettes?"

"Oh!" she announced, waving her hands around frantically to regain her composure, "Près de l'escalier! Euh...vous devez tourner à gauche!" She moved her hands from right to left to demonstrate what she meant.

"L'escalier?"

She looked at me for a moment, before laughing. "Oh! J'ai oublié! C'est juste là." She pointed down the hallway. "Désolée."

I thanked her politely. "Merci, Mademoiselle."

She nodded. "Oh, et je m'appelle Jenny."

"Merci, Mademoiselle Jenny." I thanked her again, addressing her by her name.

"De rien."

Having said that, I flipped the blanket over, getting out of the bed. I gingerly lowered my feet to the floor, testing it awkwardly, before walking out the door and heading to the bathroom, as she had directed. I walked down the hallway and to the stairs. Just as she said, after turning left, I found the bathroom.

I pushed the door open, surveying what I had just stepped inside. It didn't smell like piss and vomit so, clearly, it was cleaned on a regular basis. The stalls looked relatively clean—well, as clean as bathrooms got—and the floor wasn't completely marked up. It was, generally, pretty small—six to eight stalls, give or take. There were two sinks situated below two fairly large mirrors in front of the bathroom stalls.

I turned to the sink, twisting the taps. I cringed upon hearing the squeaking noise. There was a loud rumbling as water rushed through the pipes and out the tap. I stuck my hands under and, immediately, withdrew them. It was frighteningly cold. Adjusting the temperatures via the handles, I finally managed to get it relatively lukewarm. I ran my hands through the water, bringing some up to my face, too. I scrubbed my face, irritated, with my hands. Peering into the mirror, I realized how sickly I looked. Or, perhaps, it was just the lighting. I made a face. This sucked. I looked a bit pale—for me, anyway. I wasn't that pale. I ran a hand through my vivid blue hair. It shocked me that the nurse hadn't commented on that. She had probably figured "teenagers and their hair dye". Sometimes, I really wished that it _was_ hair dye. It looked a bit disheveled and ruffled—like I'd just gotten out of bed (which I had).

I was done with that. I turned off the water, shaking my hands, not bothering to dry them. I pulled open the door and began to walk back to my room.

I stopped at the door, glancing up at the number. It said 205. Well, that was ironic—unpleasantly so.

The moment I entered, I noticed that it was empty once again. The nurse had left. I briefly contemplated the small orange button with the person on it to call her again. But, I didn't. It was pointless, anyway. She had her work to do—no point in bothering her because I was bored.

I went to sleep again.

The next time I woke up was sometime in the afternoon. Again, I had slept through the morning. It was an unpleasant thought that I might have messed up my internal clock. That would make the rest of the trip miserable—assuming that I would leave the hospital soon. It was best to think positive, anyway.

Then, I heard the door open.

Jerking my head sideways, I turned to the door. My instincts got the better of me and I was tense and poised to strike already. The question of who it was didn't escape my mind, though.

"Idiote," a soft, feminine voice barked at me from outside the door. She knew I was awake—that Marie.

"_Quoi?_" I asked, scrunching my face together in distaste.

She made a noise akin to a "tch" and entered the room, shutting the door gently behind her—not for my sake, for the other patients' sakes.

She switched to English but it wasn't impossible to catch the French lilt in her voice even as she spoke. "You are in a hospital."

I gave her this look that, more or less, said "you have a knack for speaking the obvious". I nodded, though, in affirmation. "What is your _point_?" I asked.

"You're becoming soft." she told me, disgust lingering in her tone. "You're becoming weak—like a worm; like a _maggot_—grotesque, undeserving, worthy of _dying_."

I knew that note. There was a certain low that the pitch of her voice would hit. She was serious, I knew as much. There was something more than seriousness to that tone, though. No, if it was just seriousness, that wasn't the issue. She wanted that to happen. She wanted me to die. She wanted to be the one to kill me.

"No," I protested gruffly. My points, though, were few and even fewer were valid—even fewer made even a _tiny_ bit of sense. "You're wrong." I still told her that, though.

"You're a poor liar, _Grim Reaper_." she hissed at me. She seldom used that _horrendous_ nickname for me. Out of all the ones I had been given that, I needn't deny, was my least favourite. "Or, should I say _ex_-Grim Reaper?" She spat the "ex" part, opting for forming a look of distaste with her wrinkled brow and nose. Despite being just a child, I knew well than to belittle her standing. She was also the most unsteady of all of my family—the wildcard, one could say. She played her part well.

"Regardes, Marie," I murmured, trying my hardest to sound calm—the flicker that passed my eyes gave me away, though. My eyes still were pointed like daggers and never once left her. Chances were that she had a weapon on her body—no, she _had_ a weapon on her body, without a doubt. It was something Marie would do, regardless of family tradition. Of course, that must have been where that habit formed. After all, the apple never fell far from the tree. "Maintenant, pourquoi es-tu ici?"

She looked up at me. I could see ferocity in her eyes—marked by her intense gaze. I feared those sharp blue eyes—more frightening than anything in my life, or perhaps not. Frightening they were, though—without so much as a doubt. "Parce que," she breathed out, "tu dois _mourir_."

Shit.

I hissed loudly, disgruntled, as I swung myself over the bed, hunched over in a defensive stance. This wasn't a time to panic, I knew that. This also wasn't the first time Marie had tried this—_tried_, but never succeeded. I didn't want to change that to a "not yet".

I felt the cold tiles under my feet but they did nothing to frighten me as much as her cold, hard gaze—the eyes of a true assassin. Marie had the makings of a true assassin. That alone made my blood run cold.

She drew her weapon of choice out. I knew it well, without even having to look—a birthday present from our father, a small knife. An ordinary knife, it would appear as. The only difference, though, was small—jagged on one side, smooth and sharper than anything I had ever seen or felt in my _life_ on the other side. The pointed end housed one of the most dangerous poisons I had ever encountered or had to deal with—it had no antidote, I knew. It stopped the brain from sending signals to the body but continued to allow the brain to receive signals from the nerves throughout the body—brutal and perfect for Marie. You could hear, smell, see, feel, and taste, but you could do _nothing_ to stop it. The most amazing feat—which took quite a while for Pierre to figure out—was that the victim could continue to breathe and his heart would continue to beat and his brain would continue to function. It was Pierre's handiwork—a beautiful work of art that I'd rather not have had to face that day. One stab meant certain death—a death I didn't want to see or meet just yet.

I stilled my breathing, calming myself further. I didn't need to panic. Instinct—that's what I needed. I was an assassin by blood and by oath.

To my left—I couldn't feel the whiz of air that should have passed me, but, before my eyes could even follow, but not faster than my body could react, Marie was at my side, knife poised. Before she could lunge for a stab, I was across the room, braced against the wall with my right foot forward to steady me. I couldn't back up any further, but I could move forward. Fights were like chess—like a dance.

I was never any good at chess _or_ dancing.

There was this silence that rang like a peal of bells whenever I faced death—looking it right in its eyes, never missing a beat. This silence, though, was a midday silence—not a time I was accustomed to fighting in. The light was an advantage and a disadvantage—visibility and blindness; a beautiful combination. I could use both to my advantage.

Moans and groans of patients down and across the hall could be heard. It was my kind of silence—my element.

Calculating was taking too long. Movements—quick and rapid in succession—needed to be made. I was never the "first move" kind of person, though.

Marie moved.

A fist to my stomach—I needed to block it. My hand reached out instinctively. Caught—I had grabbed her hand.

Her right hand was free—I needed to stop it. That hand had the knife, I couldn't reach out blindly. _Her wrist_, my brain instructed, _grab her wrist_. My right hand shot out, pulling her wrist down to meet her other hand. _Stop movement! She'll twist her hand around with the knife!_ My grip tightened, turning her wrist at an awkward angle but not quite to break it—just to stop her from moving it.

Her foot—it caught my shin by surprise. I could feel the dull, painful throb of a bruise forming. _Don't move away! She wants you to! Hold her foot back!_ My left leg made its way behind her and, soon enough, I had switched our positions—Marie was shoved against the wall. Using my larger frame and weight to my advantage, I pressed her against the wall, breathing heavily. She wasn't going to be there for long. I needed to think—rationality was the key fo survival.

Instinct, will to live, self-preservation—only those kept me fighting and hanging on.

I was barely calm—I needed to calm down. Breathe—inhale and exhale, Grimmjow. _Calm down_.

She moved. Swift like a hummingbird and sharp like a butterfly—her knee flew out at my stomach.

_Get away!_ I jumped backwards as quickly as I could, narrowly dodging her knee. She was free again. A flurry of movement passed by before I noticed her advancing toward me again.

Something kicked in just then—through the blur, I moved. _Grab her wrist._ The voice was calm. _Twist—behind her back. _This calm frightened me. _Foot ahead of hers._ Was this really me? _Pull back._ I hardly managed to keep in a cry of alarm as she fell beneath me—at my feet, but only slightly. Her body was bent into a grotesque knot of limbs and torso. Her eyes never ceased to flare at me with anger.

I let go. She fell.

"Fine," she growled at me. She looked horribly enraged but her eyes spoke volumes of how pleased she was. "I see that you have not weakened beyond the point of repair. You still have your," she paused for a moment, getting up and brushing herself off, "instinct." That's right—I still had my killer's instinct.

I didn't _want_ it, though.

She didn't look back as she exited the room. "See you soon."

She was gone before I could ask her what she meant by "soon".

I surveyed the room gingerly, wincing at the mess we had made. I hadn't noticed earlier but, now, I did—tables shoved aside, bedsheets slightly torn and out of place—even on the floor, items knocked over. Thankfully, the machinery was still intact and functioning. I then noticed that I was no longer hooked up to it. That was a pleasant surprise. When had it come off—the monitors? Was I well enough to leave?

Then, my mind went to duller thoughts—ones I didn't want.

My killer instinct—the one that had been dormant—was still inside of me.

Two years away from killing had done nothing to rid me of it.

I shuddered, hating myself for every moment I had risen to her taunting—she had been coaxing it back out of me. My stupid little sister was still the same—we were nothing like a normal family, I was sure. That made me feel sick and dirty. How dirty was I? How much blood was on these hands of mine?

I really hated all of this—my family coming back, my sister and...everything she had done—these unwanted suggestions that I was still an assassin at heart.


	12. Chapter X: Diluted Poison

**Chapter X: Diluted Poison**

It was already—sometime around—my fourth day spent at the hospital. I was already beginning to get sick of it. Sure, the nurse was nice—we conversed regularly—but, otherwise, it was just plain _boring_. I wanted to go back to the hotel. What were they worrying about, anyway? Just yesterday, they had removed the machines from me. Certainly, I was fine now. Of course, the sensible part of my mind (which never really won out) told me that they needed to wait and make _sure_—they needed to wait for me to recuperate, first.

Speaking of yesterday, though...

I shuddered at the thought. I was _not_ going to bother myself over my sister's stupid words. They had nothing to do with me. Marie had always been twisted—_always_. I didn't need to concern myself with her—not like this, anyway.

Still, though, her words rang in my mind like never-ending resounding bells—a horrible peal that haunted the mind and the soul. Oh, how I wanted this stupid _noise_ to _end_. Of course, I had a natural tendency to get exactly what I _didn't_ want.

"_You still have your...instinct._"

"_See you soon._"

There it was again—those _stupid_ words. I couldn't stop dwelling on them. I didn't want to see her "soon"—I didn't want to see her _at all_. And, I couldn't help dwelling on the "instinct" thing. Killer's instinct—I didn't _want_ it! It was stupid, unnecessary, and—

And, it was everything that I was—stupid and unnecessary. So, why did I feel the need to detach myself from this killer's instinct of mine? What—_who_—was I doing it for? Myself? Certainly not. Why the _fuck_ would I cause so much trouble for myself? Truthfully, I had no real ambitions so taking over our family's business was, really, the only option I had let myself see. What had made me even _consider_ broader horizons? What in the _world_ had driven me to refuse my family _knowing_ how much trouble it would cause?

Oh, that was right—Ulquiorra.

And, was it worth it, after all?

Fuck, _yes_—every second of it was worth it.

Of course, Ulquiorra wasn't the only one. There was Leroy and Lis—_everyone_, really. I had been given a chance to live a—_relatively_—normal life and had taken to it with _relish_. I didn't want to go back to my old way of living once I knew about _this_ way—this _free_ way. I had options, I had been able to see them all then. There was _so much_ that I could do—so much that I could _accomplish_. I didn't want to go back to walking the one straight path that had already been laid out in front of me and had already been treaded on. I wanted to make my mark—blaze my _own_ trail.

Of course, that was all ridiculous, sentimental _bullshit_. Who was I kidding? I was a good-for-nothing. Really, there was only one thing that I _was_ capable of doing—_killing_. I didn't need to lie to myself and make myself believe otherwise because I knew, deep inside of me, that that was _true_. There was no way around that _fact_—because that was what it was, a _fact_.

I didn't like that fact—not at _all_.

The door opened.

Shit.

I flinched instinctively, tensing against my own will—there it was, that word again, _instinctively_.

It wasn't Marie, though—_thankfully_. Of course, the person who walked in wasn't much better. It was Pierre—_fucking Pierre_. I swear, my brother was almost as cold as Ulquiorra is _now_—and Ulquiorra is a fucking _hollow_, now. He lives up to the title, I can guarantee you.

"Grimmjow," I struggled between gratefulness and dislike when I heard him address me by my name. On one hand, he was _not_ calling me "Grim Reaper". On the other hand, though, he was using my fucking _name_. That was never a good sign. He continued on, though, "Maman a...demandé pour ton...retour." I _loved_ the way Pierre had worded that. (Note the sarcasm, if you will.) His voice was so carefully guarded that I almost _gagged_. There was no familiarity within our family, I knew. Still, there was no need for that...for that _tone_, damn it! I _hated_ it. And, when I hated, like anything else I did, I hated it with _passion_. Maybe I was just too used to the open trust outside of my home, though. That was more likely a possibility than the former. When I thought about it, I returned the feelings all the same—I didn't trust them either.

"Pourquoi?" I questioned cautiously, disgusted at myself for having the same tone.

"Parce que," He gave me a knowing look that told me to stop thinking whatever nasty thoughts I had been thinking. I obeyed immediately. With me and Pierre (more because he didn't talk than because we _wanted_ to), we had formed a habit of communicating with our eyes rather than speech. I had to admit it was useful but it had its..._faults_, obviously. "Tu dois."

Oh, that was a _brilliant_ response. I had to return because I _had to_? No reasons? Nothing? That was _so_ unlike Pierre.

He added something else, though, that shocked me. "Elle a demandé pour tes amis aussi."

"_Quoi?!_" I choked out, sounding like a genius—a _strangled_ genius.

"Elle a demandé pour—"

I growled, barking out (in English), "No! I _heard_ you!" That had _not_ been in my best interested but, whatever, I didn't care at the moment. My (psychotic, murderous, unpredictable) _mother_ was asking for my _friends_ to accompany me home. By friends, I assumed she meant those she had come to visit me. That was Leroy, Lis, and...oh _fuck_ no, Ulquiorra. No, no, no, no—Ulquiorra could _not_ come along. That was _bad_. Leroy was a "whatever" because my family already knew him. I was a little bit worried about Lis. But, I was the most worried about Ulquiorra—_especially_ with the way my mother had reacted. No, it was _not_ fucking funny. It was _suspicious_. I had mentioned that she enjoyed me making friends but, damn it, her reaction was _still_ suspicious. My mother _did_ do things like that (yes, both randomly and _publicly_) but, no, that wasn't my concern—there was a strange glint in her eyes, something _homicidal_. Something was up—if Marie's visit hadn't been enough of an indication. Now? Well, _now_, she had sent Pierre as a messenger to come drag me home.

"I want to die." I grumbled—only for myself to hear. Of course, as expected, Pierre heard it, too.

"That can be arranged." he murmured beneath his breath.

You know what? _Fuck him_.

* * *

Not soon after train tickets had been arranged, I had been escorted out of the hospital under the pretense that I was "going to be taken care of at more personal facilities". _Of course_ that was going to happen. Yeah, _right_—when had anyone started believing my parents? And, most of all, _why_?

I hadn't even had a chance to say goodbye to Jenny. I had left a note addressed to her, of course, seeing as to how it was only _common courtesy_. But, who knew how many "Jenny"s worked at this hospital? And, who knew just _who_ would pick it up and _who_ would bother to give it to her? Impractical, right? I had guessed as much.

We—referring to Leroy, Lis, Ulquiorra, and I—had been rounded up and were now waiting at the train station for the train with Pierre to "supervise" us. We had been given "special permission" to deviate from the original plans from the field trip—just the four of us—because of "personal circumstances". They all had their things packed in their original suitcases. At that point, I gave up caring. The only thing going through my mind was "protect Ulquiorra". My _instinct_ told me that something was up. I doubted that that was far from the truth.

Leroy was, as per usual, aloof and Lis, oblivious as she was, seemed charmed that they were being invited to visit my family's personal villa. I wasn't the only one who suspected something, though, because there was an air of caution about Leroy—the way he glanced nervously at Pierre occasionally and then to me with questioning looks. Of course, I had returned his looks with simple looks of "I don't know" because, truthfully, I _didn't_ know. I just knew that _something_ wasn't right. How much I wish I knew _what_ had been wrong. No use dwelling on the past, anyway—especially one that you can't change.

Ulquiorra stood beside me quietly, leafing through a book he had brought with him. I didn't expect him to share a conversation with anyone, really, but the way he was acting made him seem even more anti-social than he normally came off as being.

Deciding to at least _try_ to strike up a conversation, I turned to Ulquiorra, asking, "What are you reading?"

"Attempt failed," Ulquiorra replied sharply, not looking up once from his book. Of course he knew what I had been trying to do. I mean, it was _Ulquiorra_—perceptive to a fault. Well, he was perceptive on certain things, anyway—_normal_ things. When it came to abnormal things—like my family, for instance—he wasn't quite as well equipped to fend them off. He answered my question anyway, though. "I'm _trying_ to read _Bleach_."

I shot him this unimpressed look. "You're trying to read a _cleaning product_?" I asked, not amused. Surely, he was joking with me.

He glared at me like I was stupid—that wasn't unusual. "It's a _manga_, you _idiot_." Of course, he had to go and _cement_ it by actually _calling_ me an idiot.

And, I had to make it worse by _sounding_ like an idiot. "A mang-_what_?" I asked, clearly confused, "What in the world is _that_? A fruit—like a mango?"

He rolled his eyes at me—it was _his_ turn to be unimpressed. "It's a comic—a Japanese comic, to be precise." He held the book up to my face and, now, I could see it clearly. It was, indeed, a comic book—a very nice one, might I add. I also took notice that, unlike our books, it read right to left. Well, _that_ was difficult.

"Huh, _you_ read comics." I stated, sounding utterly bewildered. It should have been a question but, clearly, it _wasn't_. "The world might as well end today. Ulquiorra reads comics."

"_Shut up_, Jeagerjaques." His voice sounded malicious but I knew that he was more embarrassed than angry at me. Clearly, he didn't like the notion of himself reading comics but, hey, he did and, quite frankly, he seemed to be _enjoying_ the book.

I glared at him anyway. "Don't call me by my last name, _Schiffer_." I shot back.

"Fine." He agreed to my terms easily. "Shut up, _Grimmjow_." Though, I can't say that that was much better. I didn't comment on that, though.

I didn't bother to try to continue the argument. Instead, I decided to direct my attention to his book—_manga_, sorry—instead. Leaning over his shoulder, I peered down at the pages. I quickly read the words in the speech bubbles. The main character, if I had read correct, was a boy named Ichi-something-or-another. Now that I thought about it, he looked an awful lot like Kurosaki—well, _without_ the _pathetic_ expression that Kurosaki wears. If anything, this Ichi-something-or-another looked quite a bit like me. Huh, well isn't that interesting. He also seemed to act a lot like me—brash, without thinking, quickly resorting to violence and quick to anger—

Fuck, I was beginning to sound _too_ much like Ulquiorra. That scared me.

Then, Ulquiorra walked off in the general direction of my brother, Pierre. Stupid move. I was just about to yell at him not to before thinking that that would make him wonder why—I couldn't have that—so I simply followed him.

"Hello," he greeted my brother cordially. It was so formal. It was so _Ulquiorra_. I briefly wondered why he wasn't polite to me—_ever_—when he seemed to be so fucking _polite_ to just about _everyone else_.

What surprised me more was that Pierre bothered to reply. "Hello," he greeted Ulquiorra just as formally. Well, this was interesting. I kept my mouth shut and watched—listening intently, unbeknownst them (hopefully, anyway).

Of course, halfway into the conversation, I gave up listening. If you could imagine the situation, it was like listening to two Ulquiorras talk to each other about, well, whatever it is that Ulquiorras would talk to each other about—Shakespearean literature, for example. Yeah, give me _one_ good reason to listen, right? Let's just say that I got _bored_, to oversimplify.

It struck me as odd that Pierre was _very much_ like Ulquiorra—from his speech to his interests to his _looks_ even. Well, not so much for the looks—my brother's eyes were hazel-coloured and his hair was tousled, not..._arranged_ like Ulquiorra's. Oh, my brother also looked a _lot_ more intimidating then than Ulquiorra did. Trust me, you would be surprised. Actually, Pierre resembled Ulquiorra as he is now more than Ulquiorra was _then_. That was strange. Well, _whatever_.

The train arrived a few minutes late—three, exactly, because I had been _counting down_ the _seconds_ after being rejected from _any_ conversations. Yes, I had tried to join in on Pierre and Ulquiorra's _avid_ discussion of Shakespeare (or something like that) but had failed miserably. I had also tried to join in on Leroy and Lis's conversation but that didn't go over too well, either.

Upon boarding, I gave the attendant gesturing for us to board a _look_ and said, "You arrived late." She must have thought that I was crazy because she certainly made that sort of startled expression. Whatever it was, she immediately disliked me. Despite that, though, she willingly directed us into the train. If I had been some sort of megalomaniac (which I was just barely short of being), she—and everyone else on board—would have been in trouble. Therefore, that raised the question, why in the _world_ had she let _me_ through? Well, who was I to question that?

Anyway, we boarded—able to stow our luggage where it belonged—before taking our seats.

There was some announcement that the train was beginning to move before we started to move. I jerked forward in my seat immediately, finding myself unprepared for the start. However, I eased back into my seat once we were at a steady pace.

As we travelled, I could hear Lis talking to Leroy about how beautiful the passing scenery was and Leroy telling her what a "silly girl" she was. I tuned them out quickly, growing exceedingly bored. I had to admit, the scenery _was_ beautiful. However, I had seen it one too many times for me to be genuinely interested. Ulquiorra, on the other hand, was quietly fascinated. He stared out the window with wide eyes but never said a word. I could vaguely hear Pierre pointing out different things and whatnot to him. I, however, was fixated on Ulquiorra's curious expression. It was so honest and _true_ that I found it endearing. As reluctant as I was to admit it (or maybe not), I found it rather...enchanting. There, I said it. Ulquiorra was enchanting.

Not soon after, though, I fell asleep.

* * *

Some few stations later, I was awakened from my peaceful slumber by a none-too-gentle shake from Ulquiorra. "We're here." he hissed in my ear as quietly as possible.

"I can see that." I mumbled, yawning and stretching. "Let's go, then." Ulquiorra merely shook his head at me.

When we exited the train and stepped onto the platform, we could see that Pierre and the others had exited before us and had already gathered the luggage, explaining why we couldn't find our bags earlier.

Pierre, seeing that everyone had arrived safely—meaning alive and in one piece, turned on his heel and walked down the familiar dirt path that ran through the countryside, leading to our villa. It had been quite a while since I had come here. It was a sense of coming home and a sense of foreboding that kept my senses sharp.

Pierre's footsteps were brisk and silent—as expected. However, it seemed that he was making a great deal more noise because, I thought, he must have thought someone was suspicious if he walked, well, inaudibly. Truthfully, if he had so wished to, he could have been right in front of us then be behind us then we would be dead. But, he didn't.

I suspected that the suspicious person was Ulquiorra. Pierre had a knack for picking out the more intelligent, observational people. And, hey, Ulquiorra wasn't that hard to spot.

Ulquiorra turned to me, asking quietly, "He's your brother, right?"

I nodded. "Yes, he's my brother."

He cracked a wry smile. "No family resemblance whatsoever."

I shoved him playfully. "Hey, hey, that's not nice!"

"I never said it was a bad thing. You just assumed." he retorted, laughing.

"I say it's a bad thing!" Leroy chimed in.

Lis waved her hands frantically in the air as she usually would. "Oh no! It's not a bad thing at all!" Then, she smiled. If I wasn't mistaken—her cheeks had been a bit red. She was such a shy girl.

I grinned at her. "Thanks." Then, facing Leroy and Ulquiorra, I said, "Ha! You see that? At least _someone_ is nice to me!"

Leroy laughed loudly.

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught Pierre half-smiling. That was...nice, I suppose. He was my brother, for what it was worth.

Ulquiorra shook his head. "You've told me many, _many_ times that I'm not nice at all so what made you start thinking I would start now?"

"Fine," I half-pouted for the joke. "Mean—you're terribly _mean_."

Ulquoirra mock-bowed. "You're _very_ welcome." Leroy's relentless laughter rang loudly in the background. Lis was panicking.

I couldn't help but smile, too, now. Ulquiorra was...happy. That was nice, without a doubt. I wondered, then, how many times I'd be able to see him smile like that—how many times I'd be able to _make_ him smile like that.

We quickly lost track of time in conversations and jokes. I was quickly brought back down to earth when Pierre's sharp voice cut through ours. "We're here." he stated abruptly, setting the suitcases down in front of the huge, black metal gates that stood in front of the property.

Leroy looked up at it, remembering the last time he had been here. Lis and Ulquiorra, however, were admiring it. Lis's eyes spoke for that but Ulquiorra, well, he was silent in acknowledgement.

"That's right—Lis and Ulquiorra have never been to your villa." Leroy commented, waving a hand to dismiss it.

I laughed. "Yeah, they haven't."

Villa... that might have been an understatement. For starters, it was ridiculously _huge_—not as big as our "house", but really big, still. There were reasons for that, though. I—no, all of my family—had spent a lot of time here growing up and whatnot. Why? Well, our "house" was more like "headquarters". This was our real "_home_". So, this place was more familiar to me. Of course, trying to explain this concept to Ulquiorra might have startled—or worse, _frightened_—him. I doubted that he was ready to hear about _my_ past—even if he had opened up a little to me about his. Or, perhaps, I could tell him a little about mine? It was only fair. I would decide later.

Matthias was there to greet us at the gates, as expected. I took note that all our other security measures were down. I supposed that they were trying not to intimidate their "guests". Well, Leroy was surprised, too—he had been here when _everything_ had been up and running. The terrified look in his eyes, then, had been priceless. Anyway, after opening the metal gates, we were allowed in—just like that. It was strange. Pierre just followed behind us.

I greeted Matthias, our butler, politely. And, he smiled back, greeting me as "Master Grimmjow", his heavy French accent apparent.

We walked down a cobblestone path that led through the gardens and to the front door. Pierre unlocked and opened the door, leaving Matthias to do his other work.

I quickly diverted my attention to my friends. "Come on in." I told them, gesturing for them to come with me. As Leroy and Lis entered, I went to the back and grabbed Ulquiorra's hand, flashing him a safe smile. He nodded, then, and went in with me.

"You needn't hold my hand, you know?" he murmured, pulling his hand from mine. If I hadn't been mistaken, his cheeks were tinted, despite the fact that he was looking down to—I assumed—hide it. That was...oh, fuck it, _cute_.

I watched as Ulquiorra quickly surveyed the entire building in one glance. Despite how large it was, it had a feeling of warmth—how unusual. That was very unlike my family. I was grateful that Marie had picked up her "toys", let's just say. I doubt other children's parents would let their children _play_ with those things. Well, we were an assassin family. We weren't _meant_ to be normal.

While Leroy and Lis were led away on a quick tour of the house, I grabbed Ulquiorra's hand and tugged him in another direction. "Come on." I pointed up the stairs. "Let's go to my room." I looked at him painfully. "There's something important that I need to tell you."

Confused, he only followed.

Once inside, he remarked gently, "This place is nice—rather homely, for a villa."

I chuckled. "It ought to be. Pierre, Marie, and I grew up here."

He shot me a curious look. "What about your _house_?"

I didn't answer that. Instead, I said something else. "Look, Ulquiorra,"

"Yes?" he couldn't help but ask.

"Stay _away_ from Marie." There, I had said it. I could see his eyes widen for merely a fraction of a second before they returned to normal once again.

Ulquiorra questioned me slowly, "Why...?"

I didn't give him an answer. "Don't trust _anyone_ in my family—_especially_ not Marie _or_ my mother, understand? Pierre may be safe—but not trustworthy. _Never_ let down your guard." He looked like he was going to say something before I cut him off with, "Don't worry about Leroy and Lis—Leroy already knows all of this, he's been here before. They know not to trust the others."

"Why should I be so..._cautious_ among them?" He chose his words carefully even now.

I shook my head, looking away. "You don't want to know."

"_Grimmjow_," he ordered, forcing me to face him again, "_tell me_."

This would be difficult.

"Because Marie will try to kill you." He didn't have a chance to ask what he was going to ask, but he let out a strangled cry of shock. "Mother might, too. I don't know about Pierre. He's...well, _Pierre_. I _know_ Marie will, though." _I don't want you to die. I love you._ I thought in silent acknowledgement.

Ulquiorra's face twisted in confusion. "_Why_, Grimmjow? _Why_? And, _how_ do you _know_?"

I smiled reluctantly at him, looking him in the eyes. "Because I'm no better than them."

There, I had said it. I had ruined what he already thought of me. I had already sowed the seeds of distrust. They would only grow and spread—wrecking havoc in their paths.

_But he can't die—I won't allow it._

Even if he hated me; even if he never trusted me again—that was the price. This was the only piece of my past that I could give him—this diluted poison.


	13. Bonus II: A Night to Remember

**Bonus 2: A Night to Remember**

It was a night to remember, though I can't say that it was a good memory. I can't say that I have many good memories—none to spare, certainly. I can also say that the few good memories are the best memories anyone could ever have. So, I suppose it evens itself out.

Perhaps, the only reason that I remember this is because it was spurred by the words of a friend. Yes, I dare to call Grimmjow a friend. He was my first friend—_true_ friend. You might think that to be a strange thing for a girl to say but I can't find it to be.

So, I'll call him a friend for the time being.

Yes, it was a night to remember. There were lights galore. The only word that struck me was "illumination". It was beautiful. At the same time, it was morbid. It had terrified me.

There was but one word after that that I really understood—_death_. There was death everywhere. There was no blood. There were no remains. There was death.

* * *

That is more than likely the worst introduction I gave of myself. My name is Clarisse. Some know me better as Claire. It doesn't matter though. Names are insignificant. Shakespeare said it the best; "What's in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet." I remember the first time that Grimmjow heard that quote. I remember how he smiled. He had only been eight then. Still, there was something profound about that smile—something like relief.

It was only until later that I understood what it truly meant to him, the story (because tragedy is such a terrible word) of Romeo and Juliet.

* * *

We had met at a park. I had never attended the same school as Grimmjow. Of course, I hadn't known about his homeschooling then. I had assumed, like any normal child, that he had gone to a normal school that just...wasn't my own.

We hit it off quickly. That is, we became fast friends. He liked sports and I liked sports. He liked to play football (soccer, if you really must) and I liked to play football. He liked to bother my brother and I liked to bother my brother. I think it really was the last one that made us friends. Ah, but it's not the time to talk about my brother. I'm sure you all want to know about Grimmjow and the _amazing_ adventures we used to have. I still laugh at them. Children must be children though, no?

We used to pretend to be pirates. That was probably my best memory.

I hadn't known what that meant to him. I hadn't known what being something else—_someone_ else—meant to him. Of course, I couldn't possibly have understood at that age.

I remember when I was that little I thought that I knew everything. I thought adults were stupid and didn't understand what being a kid was like. You see, then, I even had this theory going for me that adults had been transported here from some far away world to rule over us. Of course, silly things aside, I know now that I was too young then to understand.

Those who think they have thing cut out for them couldn't be more wrong. I used to think that too. I used to think that my problems were the biggest and worst problems. I used to think that no one else could have it as bad as I did. Of course, I also used to think that our adults were aliens (except my parents) so I can't say I was very mature.

The day I found out what true problems were was the worst day of my life. Even thinking of it now, I still cry. It's been almost four years now though.

* * *

It was a night to remember.

There had been a fire. There had been colours of crimson and vivid oranges I may have never had a chance to see ever again in my life but I wasn't concerned about that. No, not even the swirling clouds of smoke overhead and the bright yellow-white sparks overhead caught my attention. The only thing I could think of was "Mom and Dad are still inside."

That was when I screamed. That was when I cried. That was also when my brother found me.

He never told me that it was going to be alright because that would be a lie. He didn't patronize me and tell me that I had nothing to worry about because that would also be a lie. I had every right to cry and every reason to be worried and every reason in the _world_ to be scared. I was scared. Why? I was scared because Mom and Dad were still inside the house.

* * *

I can tell you the first thought I had when I saw Grimmjow. In fact, I had said it aloud for my brother to hear. "That boy has a funny hair colour." Isn't that how it always works? Children always notice the silliest things.

It was silly that I noticed his hair first because the things I didn't notice were so much more important. For one, he had blood on his hands. For another, he was holding a knife drenched in that same blood. I think the thing I should have noticed the most though was that he looked absolutely terrified of me and my brother and that he was crying like there was no tomorrow.

But, just as soon as we had seen him, he was gone.

My brother and I never spoke of it again. I had never understood that—why there were some things people should never talk about. Of course, I had never understood why we had to do chores so I can't really say much for myself.

* * *

The second time we saw him was at the park, like I had said.

The third time, however, was at my house. He was fleeing from it, from what I could tell. Though my eyes were blurred by tears, I could never forget that neon blue hair of his. Natural, I had always assumed.

The words I heard were truly what haunted me though. "I'm sorry." he had whispered only loud enough for me to hear above the roaring of the water being used to douse the fire and the shouting of the firemen which really couldn't have been a whisper. But, it sounded like a whisper to me. "They were on the list." he told me in the most lamenting voice I had ever heard.

That was the last I heard of him. Well, that was the last I heard of him for an entire year.

* * *

Like I said, the "list" haunted me. The apology haunted me even more so. I may have been silly and immature but it didn't genius to put two and two together. To say the least, I was pretty sure that my parents had been on some sort of "list" and that Grimmjow had set the fire. Somehow, I couldn't bring myself to truly be angry with him because, despite the fact that I was upset, I couldn't fathom hating him, my friend. I hated the fact that my parents had died, yes. But, at the same time, I couldn't understanding hating Grimmjow. So, I didn't hate him. I couldn't hate him.

Soon enough, the incident no longer weighed on my mind as heavily as it had before and all I wanted to do was see Grimmjow again. All I wanted to know was _how_ and _why_, nothing more.

We were eleven when we saw each other again.

* * *

I remember looking at his face, more solemn and more mature than ever. He was no longer the kid I had known, not quite anyway. We greeted each other with a cold "Hello", nothing more, and just stared. We did nothing more than stare. It felt strange, not being able to smile and laugh like we used to.

Suddenly, he blurted out, "Don't you hate me?" There was something akin to remorse and the child I had first met in his eyes and I knew, without even the slightest doubt, that the answer was a definite "No". So, I said just that. He looked more confused than ever, asking me, "Why not? I _killed your parents_." I knew he had. I had no reason to doubt that, but I felt no hatred. So, I said just that. He didn't understand. I didn't understand either, really.

"You're a child." I told him sternly. "You don't have to understand." He seemed ridiculously miffed by this.

"No, you're wrong." His voice was uncertain and shaky. "I have blood on my hands. It's never going to come off. I have bodies over my head. I've _killed_, Claire. I've _killed_." Then, he began to cry. "They're all dead, _every last one of them_—_dead_."

Once again, I repeated, "I know." He looked at me with disbelief, but tears still flowing steadily from his eyes, but did not say a word. I took that as an unspoken invitation and wrapped my arms gingerly around his trembling body.

"Cry," I whispered, "Don't be afraid. Just cry." I had never felt the full weight of growing up on me until that moment as I felt his tears stain my shirt and heard his sobs echo emptily. He kept telling me about the terror in their eyes, the screams he had heard, the blood that had soaked his hands, and that they were all dead, dead, _dead_. I almost cried for him but I couldn't lose the strength that I held because he was relying on that strength to support himself. So, I watched as he cried and said nothing. I just listened.

* * *

It was another year until we met again in person. Of course, we had exchanged letters so we hadn't totally lost contact. When we met again, I could tell that he had come to terms with his existence. I did nothing to sway him from that because I could still see the sliver of doubt in his eyes and the occasional flicker of disgust at his position. I learned that it was a family thing, something that their entire family did as an occupation. I also learned (this one on my own) that he loved his family but didn't _like_ them. I was told of the great tales of his annoying sister, his passive brother, his doting mother, his fearsome father, and his retired-from-the-_business_ grandparents. It was endearing, to say the least. Listening to those stories made me feel like I was a part of a family—a _full_ family—again. He told me about being sent to a boarding school and of all the friends he had made. I noticed immediately when the return address had changed, of course. It was like having a pen pal but much more exciting because I had anticipated our getting together again. He was my best friend. But, more than that, he was my _family_.

When we met again, it was at his summer villa. I had learned that he _lived_ in his "summer villa" rather than his "house". The reasons he had given me were vague, though—something or another about the other house serving as a "headquarters". I hadn't cared much about that. When I saw him again, he was smiling. He had a friend in tow, too. It was some boy named Leroy, if I recall correctly. He was a nice, laid-back boy, the type of person that would be able to tolerate the sudden, flaring temper Grimmjow had grown to acquire.

It was a nasty temper, though. Toleration was possible, enjoyment was not. I nearly laugh every time at the thought of that. Grimmjow's yelling capability has diminished none, I trust. None at all.

And then, I found out about them coming back to his villa.

There was no way that I wasn't going to be there.

Of course, the first thing I had seen was "_heart attack_" splashed across the letter I had received from his mother. (Yes, she knew that I existed. In fact, she was quite nice to me...for some reason I knew not of.) My eyes had nearly popped out of my head and deflated. My brother did nearly the exact same when he saw it.

We read on though and went on to see that he was fine and fully recovered (or so they said) and returning to the villa to recuperate. The fact that I had been told of that meant that I was allowed to go. That was a nice thing.

About as nice as the Jeagerjaques got.

So, that is, more or less, everything with bits and pieces withheld, of course.

I'm excited to go to the villa.

I can't wait to hear about this "Ulquiorra" Grimmjow's been writing to me about.

* * *

**Author's Notes:**_ I couldn't find a better way to introduce OCs. I think this way works best because it also gives a bit of background information about how they know Grimmjow (or Ulquiorra, in other cases) and, really, everyone wants to know anyway. So, I apologize for leaving you with yet _another_ cliffhanger to top off the other one. From what I gather, you all wanted to know Ulquiorra's reaction. Well, that's going to have to wait. Oh, by the way, all the OCs, Grimmjow, and Ulquiorra will get their own "bonus" chapter, well, the significant ones anyway. I'm sorry for how late this is. School started and it's took some getting-used-to before I could continue writing this. Nonetheless, I'm pretty satisfied with this non-chapter. I sort of like Clarisse. I tried to make all of the OCs characters vary. She'll be interesting to observe, I'm pretty sure. Until a later time. I apologize for how short this is too. I really like the ending though. _

**R&R. Please. Thank you. **


	14. Chapter XI: Le Ciel

**Chapter 11: Le Ciel**

I remember hearing the sound of the knocker being knocked against the door. It echoed because of the acoustics of the villa, making it loud and audible _everywhere_. I remember stumbling as I rushed down the stairs. I knew the pattern of the knocks, recognizable and strange indeed. I knew the impatience of that soft tapping foot outside; it was Clarisse.

She was an old friend of mine, a _very_ old friend of mine. Eccentric and ecstatic to the core. But, she was one of my oldest friends. She was also my first friend.

I opened the door eagerly and, immediately, I was embraced by a blur of movement. "Grimmjow!" she cried out happily, "Comment ça va? As-tu faire des autres amis? Qui est 'Ulquiorra'?"

Like I said, very ecstatic.

I steadied her, laughing. "Bien, Claire. Oui, Ulquiorra est mon nouvel ami." By then, because of the sudden noise, Ulquiorra, Leroy, and Lis had rushed over to see what was going on. I saw Ulquiorra's eyes narrow at the sound of his name, but he said nothing. I let her go, gesturing to Ulquiorra. "Il est Ulquiorra."

"Bonjour," he murmured, "Je m'appelle Ulquiorra, et vous...?"

She noticed his English accent, though minute, immediately, and switched over. "My name's Clarisse, but Claire's fine." She looked him up and down, and said, "Our little Grimm here has been telling me an awful lot about you."

I distracted her before she could elaborate on that. "Dinner's ready. Come on, let's all go eat."

As everyone walked towards the dining room, I lagged behind to hiss a quiet, "He doesn't know" to Clarisse. I caught a glimpse of Clarisse's brother, Reynaud, walking in moments later, bags in tow.

I noted, as we sat down, that Lis looked a little uneasy around Clarisse, though it was more out of embarrassment, really, but she seemed happy to see that another girl was here. I grinned. Ulquiorra seemed just as uneasy. But, it was not because he was shy or embarrassed. No, it was just because of the fact that she spoke French. I assumed it was because she spoke French with _me_ and he could not understand most of it. That unnerved him because she _was not_ family. Was he jealous? Wouldn't that have been a sight to see? Ulquiorra being jealous? I couldn't stop smiling throughout dinner.

* * *

Pierre and Reynaud had finished early and headed off somewhere. I couldn't stop shuddering since Marie had joined us for dinner. Her glaring was unnerving, to say the least. It was, as I expected, mostly directed at Ulquiorra. That was never a good thing. My mother was as _pleasant_ as ever and my father was deathly silent.

I didn't want to be here, I realized. The silence was tangible and, really, I didn't want it to be. I couldn't possibly invite my friends to come with me; Leroy and Lis were chatting in whispers and were still eating and Clarisse was eyeing Ulquiorra with interest.

I grumbled. What would have made a wonderful evening had suddenly turned sour.

I got up to leave, not happy in the least. I was _very_ unhappy.

As I stood up to leave, I saw Ulquiorra get up too, excusing himself. Clarisse didn't look surprised, I also noted. I did not notice until then that he had also finished his food. Was he going to follow me?

I didn't need to wonder that, though. He didn't know his way around the house. Immediately, he followed me.

"Is what you told me true?" he blurted out, the moment we were out of hearing range. In fact, we were _far_ out of hearing range. He must have been suspicious, especially after what I'd told him. I had never seen him have so little restraint. He seemed as though he had been holding it in for a long, long time. There was desperation painted across his face. I cringed.

"It's all true." That wasn't a lie. Every last bit of it was true. I longed for it not to be, but regretfully, that was not the case.

"I see," he murmured, seemingly concluding something. There was a mixture of confusion and disbelief thrown into an inability to comprehend the situation.

Telling half-truths was often more confusing than full-truths, I realized. But, if this half-truth could save his life, it would have to do. Ulquiorra needed to be _aware_, but he didn't need to _know_. I wouldn't be swayed by my emotions to the point of getting him killed in order for him to fully understand. It wasn't worth it.

I walked up the stairs, looking over my shoulder to make sure that he didn't follow me. He made no move to do so. I was very relieved and continued on.

I felt the weight of every single footstep as I walked away from him. It was ridiculous, completely ludicrous, that I should feel lonely. I had no right to, not after everything I had done. Not just to Ulquiorra, but to everyone.

I made my way up the stairs, finding my echoing footsteps irksome. I didn't bother to disguise them because it would be forced; I didn't have Pierre's grace.

As I approached the hallway, meandering down it towards my room, I heard noises coming from Pierre's room - noises akin to groaning.

"Arrête, Reynaud," Pierre murmured. The noises stopped immediately. Pierre's voice was even. "Grimmjow, entres si tu as une problème. Autrement, quittes. Maintenant."

I didn't heed his warning and entered anyway. What I saw, I might not have wanted to see.

Because my brain was lagging, I struggled to find the appropriate French word so the English struck me first. "You're gay," I said, shocked.

He dismissed it as if it was nothing, simply with a wave of his hand.

I stood there for a good few seconds that felt far longer than they actually were before I could find it in me to repeat what I'd just said. "Pierre," I said, hesitantly looking back and forth between him and Reynaud. Oddly enough, Reynaud looked more uncomfortable than my brother. "You're gay."

Pierre's eyes narrowed. "Well, from what I can see, you can hardly have anything against it so I don't see why it surprises you so."

I stumbled backwards, sputtering out, "What?" I looked at him as though he was mad.

He raised a brow, simply turning around. "Then, I must have been mistaken." But the air he held as he walked back into his room, and even as he shut the door on my still bewildered self, was that of someone who was entirely sure of himself, but did nothing to show it on the surface.

I immediately ran away from that door, running without direction. I was pretty sure that I was running down the hallways, the one that led to my room, because that was where I ended up. By that time my mind was clear enough to get a sense of my surroundings.

The realization that I had just made was too startling for me to fully comprehend in the period of two minutes and it still hadn't quite sunk in. I pinched my cheeks just to be sure to see whether or not this was some insanity-induced haze of a dream. The pain told me that it wasn't so.

This was ridiculous, though. I had always believed that, should my brother not be heterosexual, that he had absolutely no interest in either sex - _absolutely none_ - and thus make him _asexual_. It turned out that I was beyond wrong and that, most likely, he knew more about the subject than I did.

A thought occurred to me then; should I ask Pierre for advice? My conscience and self-preservation told me: "only if you want to die". However, something akin to instinct and brotherly admiration wanted to ask him. He was, after all, several years my senior and probably more so in experience.

I contemplated the thought while pacing back and forth in my room.

I eventually decided that, should I choose to speak to Pierre on the matter, it would have to be later, _much_ later. Though, when, I would decide later. Perhaps, if I really wanted to, I could send Pierre's pet falcon to notify him. That sweet, little Peregrine would be more than happy to, I was sure, what with the way that Pierre pampered the little demon.

I sat down on the edge of my bed before promptly standing up again. It seemed that my evident impatience didn't allow me even a moment of peace.

Unfortunately, I didn't need that peace right now.

My well-trained ears immediately picked up a small noise - the sound of _metal on stone_ - coming from the direction of...

By the time I had figured out the location, I already sprinted off down the stairs and towards the sound.

There was only one thing running through my mind and coursing through my veins, matching each heartbeat with a burst of adrenaline.

Please.

Be.

_Alive_.

My lungs burned with fear and anticipation as I rounded yet another corner. My feet weren't carrying me fast enough. As I ran, I wondered trivial things like why our villa was so large and why there were so many flights of stairs leading to the wine cellar.

I made it, finding myself just a tad short of breath. My footsteps had been quiet, though, so no one had seen or noticed me. I stood just outside the door, not wanting to alarm Corentin. I could _hear_ his snarls. Holding the leash of our vicious mix-bred hound was none other than Marie.

I cringed inwardly.

"You understand, don't you?" Marie said, swinging her little toy that consisted of a double-edged weapon that had a hook on one end and a blade on the other attached to a six-foot chain around in circles. Each round that it made contact with the stone floor below was accompanied with screeching noises that only solid steel could make.

Corentin growled menacingly in correspondence to Marie's threat.

I could see now that behind Leroy's outstretched arms were Ulquiorra and Lis. Ulquiorra was hovering around Lis in an almost protective manner.

"Marie, that's ridiculous," Leroy said in a voice that was deadly calm. I appreciated Leroy's ability to contain his anxiety.

Marie frowned, obviously displeased. She played with the end of Corentin's leash that was in her hand and, in a small voice, she said, "I'd regret saying that if I was you."

Then, without warning, she let go of the leash. Corentin leapt. Every tooth and claw, I could have sworn, was bared in attack. It surprised Leroy, causing him to take a few steps backwards, trying to move away from Corentin.

I couldn't restrain myself. I had to move.

And I did just that, leaping out in the way of Corentin.

"Corentin!" I called out to the dog, eyes flashing angrily in a look that only the Jeagerjaques could manage. Upon landing on the ground right in front of me, Corentin bowed his head and stopped.

"What are you doing here, Grimmjow?" Marie spat.

Leroy only looked at me in shock.

"Stopping the family pet from mauling my friends."

She shot me an icy glare.

"Stop interfering, _brother_," she said fiercely, boring holes through my head with her eyes.

Thankfully, before I could reply, Clarisse stepped in from, quite believably, out of nowhere. "Now, now," she said, gesturing to the nonexistent timepiece on her left wrist, "Little children should be in bed by now. Let's get going, Marie." Her firm grip on Marie's shoulders silenced anything Marie was about to say.

I mouthed a "merci" to her, nodding my head gratefully. She shrugged to say that it was nothing.

When she left, I could finally breathe a sigh of relief. However, an equal sense of dread washed over me.

I didn't need to turn around to feel Ulquiorra's fixated stare on my back, though he said nothing to suggest it.

It was Leroy who spoke first, breaking the uneasy tension. "Thanks, Grimm," he murmured quietly, glancing backwards at Lis who seemed to be trembling.

I nudged Leroy gently, telling him to talk to Lis. I would have a great deal of explaining to do to Ulquiorra in awhile.

Leroy took the hint, exiting the room and taking Lis into the guest room that had been provided for him.

I was left with Ulquiorra then.

"Hey," I started awkwardly, not knowing what to say.

"Hey yourself," he replied. He suddenly let out a loud sigh. "Too many secrets, Grimmjow," he told me, pointing a finger at me, "Do you have an explanation or not?"

I looked at him, more than a little surprised. "You're not upset?"

He shrugged, kicking his feet back and forth against the stone floor in an aimless pattern. "It's not that. I can see that you were trying to protect me from something, evidently, but you failed to realize that if you did not inform me, I would most likely run recklessly into these sorts of things."

It took me a full minute to fully grasp his words. "You confronted Marie," I said breathlessly, "Not the other way around."

"I merely wanted to test what would happen if I did. I only talked to her about you," he said so easily that I couldn't quite believe him, "I wanted to know what there was to be afraid of."

The rest I could guess. "And then... Roy had to come in and save you. Lis was with him."

He turned to stare at me, but said nothing. That was the "yes" that I needed.

That was insanity in and of itself.

I grabbed him by the collar of his shirt, not really doing much, but that. My breaths were heavy and laboured, disbelieving still. "Why did you do something like that?"

"I needed to know," he said. Nothing seemed to startle him.

"Couldn't you have trusted me?" I asked, eyes questioning.

He pushed my hands away with the back of his right hand. He then brushed himself off, staring down at the floor. "I could, Grimmjow," he told me, "if you could trust me as well."

Ulquiorra walked away then, not looking back once. He did, however, add, "I wish you would, Grimmjow."

I watched his back as he walked away, asking myself why I was so pathetic. He was right, I knew. I didn't trust him not to leave me if I told him the full truth, and yet he had trusted me with his scars.

I stared at the walls around me for a moment, imagining the scene as it would have played out - Leroy's interruption, Lis's scream, Ulquiorra's wide-eyed panic. It was all too clear. Ulquiorra needed to know. I was sure now.

I stuffed my hands into my pockets as I left the room, sure that Ulquiorra had already retired to his own.

Tomorrow, perhaps, I would be able to tell him.

* * *

Tomorrow became today and I found myself, still half asleep, eating breakfast with Ulquiorra, Lis, and Leroy. The silence was awful.

I started intently at my toast. I had only taken a couple of bites out of it and, already, I lost my appetite. It wasn't that the food wasn't good, because it most certainly was. I just couldn't focus. Too much happened yesterday and I had no idea how to deal with it.

The thought of talking to Pierre crossed my mind again and, this time, I gave in to it.

I excused myself from the table and the awkward meal, venturing to search for Pierre. At this time of day, I could almost assure myself that he would be in the shooting range behind the garden. I was right, of course, and there he was.

"Pierre!" I called out. I knew he heard me but he didn't turn around. Taking that as an invitation, I walked right up to him.

He only turned to face me when I was two feet from him. "What is it, Grimmjow?" he asked. Why he _needed_ to ask such a question was beyond me, though. I decided to humour him anyway.

"I wanted to talk to you about what happened yesterday. About what I saw," I said nervously. He didn't seem surprised at all, of course.

I fidgeted awkwardly, staring fixatedly at the ground in an attempt to divulge some secrets from it. Or so it seemed. I just couldn't look Pierre in the eyes. "You're _with_ Reynaud," I said quietly, "As in... _with_... with, you know what I mean?" I didn't want to use _that_ word, though I don't know why not.

He nodded in agreement. "And what of it?" He didn't seem fazed at all; that was what awed me.

I couldn't help that, because of my shock, I immediately switched over to using French. "Mais ça c'est... c'est impossible! Toi avec _lui_ comme..."

"Homosexuel?" he supplemented.

I nodded stiffly.

He shrugged. "C'est rien, vraiment," he told me. I didn't see how it was _nothing_ though. After all, it _was_ a big deal. This was my _older brother_ who I had long since deemed _asexual_ only to find out that he was, well, actually _gay_. Stoic, quiet Pierre was _gay_. That was just... The incredulity of the situation struck me as ridiculous.

Pierre patted me on the back in a disturbingly brotherly manner. "Ne t'inquiétes pas pour moi. Tu vas accepter ça. Ce n'est pas une problème, je sais."

I stared hard at him which seemed to prompt him to ask me, "C'est tout?"

I let out a sigh. "No, Pierre, it's not..." But I didn't know where to start with _my_ problem.

Pierre was my brother, though. It seemed that I didn't need to. "You're concerned about Ulquiorra..."

I looked up at him, alarmed. The first thing I wondered was how he knew. Then, I realized that it must've showed pretty obviously on my face. "Yeah," I muttered.

"Talk to him," he said simply, "If he wants to know about us, he wants to know. Have a little more faith on his reliability." He gave my shoulder a gentle squeeze as he whispered, "He won't leave you."

I looked up to say that there was no way that that was true, but he was already gone. I had expected this, though. With an exhausted groan, I sat myself down on the bench that had been placed in our vast garden right under our arbour. My eyes followed the twisting path of the ivy plant as it made its way up and around the arbour. It was a good sort of distraction. I needed something to keep my mind off of Ulquiorra.

But it didn't last.

I found myself running a frustrated hand through my hair, trying to figure out what I was going to do - if I was going to do _anything_ - and _how_.

I needed to trust Ulquiorra. Pierre was right, but I didn't know _how_ to. I buried my face in my hands.

"Hey," I heard a voice call to me.

I looked up immediately. It was Lis.

"Can I sit with you?" she asked shyly. I nodded, shifting over to allow her room to sit. "What's on your mind?"

I didn't have the words to explain it to her so I just shrugged. "Nothing much, really."

She shook her head. "Something has been bothering you. If you're worrying about what happened yesterday, you have to know that none of us got hurt so-"

"I know that already," I snapped suddenly. She flinched. "I'm sorry," I murmured, looking away.

Lis looked up to the sky and, for a moment, I wondered what she was seeing because her eyes suddenly became glassy. It was odd; I could see the sky in her eyes.

It gave me an odd sense of calmness.

I closed my eyes, smiling a little. "Thanks, Lis," I said to her, "I needed that." I stood up, offering her my hand. "Do you want to come back to the villa with me?"

She looked surprised, but took my hand anyway.

We walked back to the villa in silence, her hand still in mine.

It was comforting to have friends, I realized then. And a brother.

Whatever was going to happen later would happen. And it would all be okay.


End file.
